i  9  / 


U     0        f 


V 


-U/v^     V 


MY   FRIEND    PHIL 


Page  236 

As  I  reached  shallow  water,  and  staggered  up  the  beach,  my 
knees  felt  weak 


MY   FRIEND 
PHIL 


BY 

ISABEL  MAUD  PEACOCKE 


RAND  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1913, 
By  RAND  MCNALLY  &  COMPANY 


THE  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  IN   WHICH   I   BECOME   ACQUAINTED   WITH 

PHILIP  AND  SUNDRY  OTHERS  ....       7 

II.  IN  WHICH  WE  MEET  THE  "SKETCH"  GIRL 

AGAIN 32 

III.  IN    WHICH    WE    RECEIVE    AND    WRITE  A 

LETTER 54 

IV.  IN  WHICH  PHILIP  GOES  A-GADDING  ...     75 
V.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND  .     .     85 

VI.  IN  WHICH  WE  IMPROVE  OUR  ACQUAINTANCE 

WITH  THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  .     .   102 

VII.  IN  WHICH  THE  SPINSTER  PLAYS  THE  PART 

OF  THE  GOOD  FAIRY 114 

VIII.  IN  WHICH  "THE  STARS  IN  THEIR  COURSES" 

FIGHT  FOR  ME 125 

IX.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND  I  HAVE  A  NIGHT  OUT  .  135 
X.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND  I  ENTERTAIN    .     .     .158 

XI.  IN  WHICH  THERE  ARE  "REWARDS"  — AND 

"FAIRIES" 186 

XII.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  HAS  A  "  DOWN-RIGHT-BAD " 

DAY 207 

5 


6  THE  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND  I  FIND  WOMEN  WANT- 

ING        223 

XIV.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND  I  TAKE  TEA  IN  TOWN  .  244 
XV.  IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND  I  BLOW  BUBBLES  .     .  259 

XVI.  IN  WHICH  WE  COME  VERY  NEAR  TRAGEDY  276 
XVII.  IN  WHICH  MY  FRIEND  PHIL  APPROACHES 

THE  VALLEY 292 

XVIII.  IN  WHICH  THE  MYSTERIOUS  D.  A.  REVEALS 

HIMSELF 315 

XIX.  IN    WHICH    WE    "ALL    LIVE    HAPPY    EVER 

AFTER" 324 


MY    FRIEND    PHIL 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH   I   BECOME   ACQUAINTED  WITH 
PHILIP  AND   SUNDRY  OTHERS 

"DHILIP  and  I  became  acquainted  under  un- 
usual  and  somewhat  painful  circumstances, 
but  my  interest  in  and  affection  for  Philip, 
dating  from  that  hour,  have  never  been  shaken. 
My  first  estimate  of  his  character — of  his 
admirable  coolness  under  nerve-shaking  ordeals, 
of  his  absolute  integrity  and  uncompromising 
attitude  to  humbug  of  all  kinds,  of  his  practical 
common  sense  and  calm  logic — has  remained 
unchanged.  I  am  proud  to  name  him  one  of 
my  friends.  That  he  thinks  as  highly  of  me  I 
hardly  dare  hope.  He  has,  I  know,  an  interest 
in  and  affection  for  me,  but  I  rather  suspect  in 
him  a  contempt  for  certain  of  my  weaknesses. 
I  try  to  explain  away  these  weaknesses  by 
telling  Philip  that  when  one  is  "grown  up"  one 
must  unfortunately  act  as  other  "grown-ups" 

7 


8  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

do,  stupid  as  it  may  appear.  And  Philip  looks 
at  me  with  his  very  solemn  gray  eyes  and  asks 
directly,  "Why?" 

Philip  is  so  very  direct.  And  without  going 
round  in  a  circle  and  repeating  myself  I  have 
no  answer  unless  it  be  the  March  Hare's 
famous  and  obvious  retort,  "Why  not?"  and 
then  I  know  Philip  would  floor  me  badly  with 
his  very  superior  logic.  But  to  return  to  our 
first  meeting.  It  took  place  at  a  dentist's,  or 
rather  in  the  dreary  ante-room  to  the  torture 
chamber,  common  to  dental  establishments, 
which  invariably  contained  a  center  table,  of 
mottled  bamboo  for  preference,  bearing  an 
untidy  collection  of  dilapidated  and  out-of-date 
magazines  and  day-bef ore-yesterday's  paper; 
several  chairs  and  a  couch  with  its  springs 
thinly  covered;  a  pot-bound  palm  on  a  rickety 
stand,  a  picture  or  two  on  the  wall,  and  a 
framed  certificate  stating  the  full  right  and 
capability  to  torture,  of  the  President  of  the 
Torture  Chamber  beyond. 

Well,  there  we  sat  in  a  heavy  silence, 
relieved  only  by  an  occasional  yawn  or  sigh. 
There  were  four  of  us.  There  was  an  elderly 
gentleman  with  a  red  face  and  spectacles, 
who,  having  picked  up  a  newspaper  from 
the  table  and  perused  it  for  ten  minutes  with 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  9 

every  sign  of  impatience,  had  suddenly  dis- 
covered it  to  be  three  days  old,  and  cast  it 
from  him  in  indignant  disgust,  so  that  it  now 
lay  in  a  crumpled  heap  on  the  faded  carpet. 
There  was  a  spinster  of  uncertain  age  and 
somewhat  severe  aspect,  who  sat  bolt  upright 
and  worked  at  a  piece  of  white  work,  and 
occasionally  cast  impatient  glances  at  the 
closed  door.  There  was  a  pretty  girl  sitting 
on  the  springless  couch  and  listlessly  turning 
the  pages  of  a  Sketch,  who  now  and  again 
addressed  a  remark  to  an  Irish  terrier,  curled 
up  on  the  edge  of  her  skirt,  the  dog  responding 
with  a  thump  of  a  stumpy  tail  and  very  speak- 
ing looks  from  a  pair  of  beautiful  cairngorm 
eyes.  Last.y*  there  was  my  humble  self,  pre- 
tending to  be  interested  in  a  small  treatise 
(picked  up  from  the  table)  dealing  with 
"Cause  and  Effect  of  Decay  in  Teeth." 
The  effect  I  knew  well  enough,  to  my  sorrow; 
the  cause  I  was  not  concerned  with,  and  I 
was  becoming  frankly  bored,  and  had  taken 
to  studying  my  boots  with  an  intent  scrutiny, 
while  working  industriously  at  a  small  hole 
in  the  carpet  with  the  point  of  my  cane,  when 
a  diversion  occurred.  This  was  no  more  nor 
less  than  the  advent  of  Philip.  Yes,  it  was 
more,  for  with  Philip  was  Philip's  mother.  I 


io  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

have  forgotten  her  name — never  mind  it. 
Beside  Philip  she  fades  into  insignificance.  I 
never  thought,  or  think,  of  her  but  as  Philip's 
mother.  That  circumstance  alone  constitutes 
her  claim  to  attention,  as  an  adjunct  (entirely 
superfluous,  it  seemed  to  me,  but  I  believe 
Philip  has  a  kindly  and  tolerant  interest  in  the 
woman)  as,  in  short,  a  background — a  very 
hazy,  shifty  background — to  Philip's  very  solid 
personality. 

Well,  into  the  silence  of  that  room,  charged 
with  all  the  sighs  of  boredom,  nervous  expecta- 
tion, and  shrinking  anticipation,  came  the 
sound  of  pattering  feet,  the  sharp  tinkle  of 
an  electric  bell,  and  then,  on  an  almost  visible 
breeze,  curiously  compounded  of  violet  powder, 
Divinia  perfume,  new  kid  shoes,  and  dying 
roses,  Philip's  mother  floated  into  the  room, 
to  the  adjoining  accompaniment  of  bangles 
and  chains,  the  rustling  of  silken  petticoats, 
and  the  tapping  of  high  heels.  With  her  was 
Philip,  in  a  very  small  compact  costume  of  the 
shirt  and  knickerbocker  style,  belted  in  trimly 
at  the  waist.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  his  thick 
blond  hair  was  cropped  boyishly  above  a  very 
square  forehead,  from  under  which  a  pair  of 
honest  gray  eyes  looked  steadily  at  all  the 
world.  His  small  square  face  was  determined; 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  11 

his  lips  red  and  very  firm  above  a  strong 
little  chin;  a  few  freckles  ornamented  a  non- 
descript nose  and — positively  that  was  all.  No 
woman  would  think  of  calling  Philip  a  "beauti- 
ful child,"  or  of  dressing  him  in  Lord  Fauntleroy 
costumes,  or  of  training  his  hair  into  long 
ringlets.  Philip's  crop  of  obstinate,  abundant 
light  hair  had  not  the  suspicion  of  a  wave  in 
it,  a  fact  which  I  afterwards  often  heard  his 
mother  lament.  But  dogs  always  took  to  him 
naturally,  and  old  ladies  never  fidgeted  when 
he  was  in  the  room.  He  now  gazed  about 
him  very  steadily  for  a  moment,  and  apparently 
finding  nothing  of  interest  (he  had  not  yet 
spied  the  dog),  took  a  length  of  knotted  string 
from  his  pocket  and  fell  to  untying  the  knots 
with  an  air  of  detached  calm,  enviable  under 
the  circumstances.  At  the  tinkle  of  the  bell 
the  white-capped  attendant  of  the  High  Priest 
of  Pain  had  appeared,  and  Philip's  mother  at 
once  swept  round  upon  her,  and  I  discovered 
(what  an  enormous  hat  had  concealed)  that  I 
was  acquainted  with  the  lady,  and  with  a  sudden 
spasm  of  feverish  interest  in  the  "Cause  and 
Effect"  I  retired  precipitately  behind  its  pages. 
"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Pullem  at  once,  please," 
said  Philip's  mother  in  a  high-pitched  voice, 
repeating  "at  once"  very  firmly. 


12  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"You  have  an  appointment,  madam?"  asked 
the  attendant. 

"No,  but  I  wish  my  little  boy's  tooth  pulled, 
and  I  have  a  very  important  engagement  at 
three-thirty." 

She  glanced  impatiently  at  a  tiny  gold  wrist 
watch. 

"I  am  afraid,  madam,  in  that  case  you  will 
have  to  wait  your  turn.  All  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen  are  before  you." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  sure,  under  the  circum- 
stances— an  important  engagement  and  my 
little  boy  in  pain  with  an  aching  tooth— 

"It 's  not  aching  a  bit,  mummy,"  interjected 
Philip,  looking  up  a  moment  from  his  string, 
but  his  mother  swept  on —  "Under  these 
circumstances,  I  say,  I  feel  sure  that  none  of 
these  ladies  and  gentlemen  will  mind  waiting— 
as  they  have  waited  so  long  already." 

She  smiled  sweetly  round,  but  a  discourag- 
ing silence  met  this  rather  remarkable  bit  of 
reasoning. 

"If  you  can  arrange  it  then  with  the  other 
patients—  '  she  too  looked  round. 

The  young  lady  became  immediately  absorbed 
in  her  Sketch;  the  spinster  gave  one  very 
expressive  look,  but  said  nothing;  and  the 
elderly  gentleman,  with  a  snort,  muttered 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  13 

something  about  "too  much  time  wasted  as 
it  is,"  and  a  "parcel  of  children."  As  for  me, 
I  steadily  absorbed  the  information  that  the 
"milk  teeth  usually  loosen  at  the  early  age 
of  six  or  seven,"  which  recalled  to  mind  the 
pathetic  history  of  little  Willie,  who  went  to 
heaven  at  the  same  interesting  age,  but  I 
was  really  listening  to  Philip's  mother. 

"Dear  me,"  she  remarked,  "how  very  dis- 
obliging and  inconsiderate !  Then  I  am  to  miss 
my  appointment,  I  suppose,"  in  a  tone  of 
injured  resentment  implying  that  the  responsi- 
bility of  that  was  certainly  on  the  company. 
"An  important  engagement,  too,"  she  went  on 
"very  —  and  I  was  to  be  there  at  three  o'clock 
sharp." 

"No,  mummy,"  corrected  Philip  calmly,  with- 
out looking  up  (I  could  not  sufficiently  admire 
the  concentration  with  which  he  worked  at 
his  string),  "Cousin  Dick  said  four  o'clock,  and 
I  'spect  he  '11  wait.  He  always  does,  you  know, 
and  the  cakes  are  sure  not  to  be  all  gone  at  the 
tea  shop,  if  you  are  a  bit  late." 

She  had  the  grace  to  redden,  and  I  heard  a 
stifled  sound  from  behind  the  Sketch,  and  some- 
thing suspiciously  like  a  sniff  from  the  spin- 
ster. At  the  same  time  I  caught  the  Sketch  Girl's 
eye.  It  was  brimming  with  merriment,  but  at 


14  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

this  moment,  having  incautiously  lowered  my 
"Cause  and  Effect,"  the  worst  happened. 

Philip's  mother  saw  me.  Instantly  her  look 
of  pettish  perplexity  changed  -to  a  beaming 
smile,  and  she  sailed  across  the  room  with 
outstretched  hand,  crying: 

"Mr.  Lingard,  how  very  fortunate.  Who  'd 
have  thought  of  meeting  you  here,  of  all  places 
in  the  world?" 

I  endeavored  to  explain,  somewhat  stiffly, 
that  I  was  by  no  means  exempt  from  the 
natural  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  and  the  cir- 
cumstances of  finding  me  at  a  dentist's  was 
not  so  very  singular,  any  more  than  in  any  one 
else.  But  she  was  not  listening.  In  a  little 
gust  of  confidence  she  inclined  toward  me. 

"Well,  now,  will  you  do  me  a  favor — a  great 
favor?  My  little  boy — shake  hands,  Phil — has 
been  crying  with  toothache " 

"Mummy,"  said  Phil  reproachfully,  after 
giving  me  his  hand.  "I  didn't  cry — not  ex- 
actly cry,  you  know.  I  only  shut  my  teef  and 
made  a  little  noise — and — and  there  was  a 
little  water  in  my  eyes — that 's  all." 

"Was  that  all,  darling?  Well,  anyhow,  the 
poor  darling  was  in  agony  all  night— 

"Not  all  night!  It  didn't  begin  till  'leven 
o'clock,"  explained  Phil.  "I  know,  'cos  I  'm 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  15 

learning  to  tell  the  time,  and  when  the  pain 
woke  me  I  fought  I  might  as  well  pracsit  the 
time,  so  I  got  out  of  bed  an'  looked,  an'  the 
big  hand  was  on " 

"There,  there,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  adding, 
to  me,  "Phil  has  a  passion  for  accuracy." 

"No,  I  haven't,  'scuse  me,"  said  Phil,  rather 
red  in  the  face,  though  not  knowing  in  the  least 
with  what  he  was  charged. 

"But  my  favor,  Mr.  Lingard.  You  won't 
refuse  me,  I  know.  I  have  a  most — I  have  an 
engagement  for  three-thirty — for  four  o'clock. 
Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  charge  of  Phil 
till  I  return?  He  won't  be  the  least  trouble. 
You  '11  stay  with  Mr.  Lingard,  dear,  won't 
you?  He  is  going  to  look  after  you  till  mother 
comes  back  from — from  the  business  she  has 
to  see  to." 

"  The  tea,  you  mean,"  said  Phil,  adding  rather 
wistfully,  "You  promised  I  could  have  the  cake 
with  the  pink  sugar  and  the  cherry  on  top." 

"I '11  save  it  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  adding  very  heroically:  "If 
you  want  that  one  very  much — or  Cousin  Dick 
takes  it  'fore  you  can  get  a  chance  (but  it 's 
ladies  first,  you  know,  so  he  ought  n't)  save  me 
the  curly  one  with  the  cream.  There  are 
always  six,"  he  explained  to  me,  the  "two 


16  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

sammidges  with  jam  and  cream,  a  curly  one 
with  cream — not  much  cream — you  'd  think 
it  was  full,  but  it  never  is,"  with  the  sad,  wise 
air  of  one  with  one  more  illusion  shattered; 
"then  there  's  a  round  one  with  cream,  and  one 
with  lots  of  bits  stuck  together  with  jam,  and 
one  with  pink  sugar  and  a  cherry  on  top, 
and  that 's  all." 

"Well,"  said  his  mother,  "I  promise  I  '11  save 
a  nice  one,  and  now  I  must  go.  A  thousand 
thanks,  Mr.  Lingard.  So  delighted  to  have 
the  chance  of  seeing  you,  and  so  kind  of  you  to 
offer  to  mind  Phil.  Be  a  good  boy,  darling. 
Good-byl" 

She  was  hurrying  away  when  I  stopped  her 
in  alarm. 

"But — but—   '  I  cried  in  alarm,  "I  can't— 
What  shall  I  do  if  you  're  not  back  in  time 
for  the  boy's  turn  to  go  in?" 

"Oh,  in  that  case,"  she  said,  her  face  cloud- 
ing, "we  '11  have  to  put  it  off  till  another  day. 
You  wouldn't  mind  very  much,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I  would,  'scuse  me,"  said  Phil  promptly, 
1  'cos  daddy  has  given  me  a  shilling  to  have 
it  out  to-day." 

"Well,  you  could  keep  that,  couldn't  you?" 

Phil  considered,  then  shook  his  head  very 
decidedly. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  17 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  'cos  this  shilling  was  to  make 
me  feel  happy  when  the  pain  was  aching  me, 
and  if  I  have  it  now,  when  I  do  have  the  tooth 
out  I  '11  have  not  nothing  to  comfort  me,  and 
I  '11  have  forgot  how  nice  I  felt  with  this 
shilling." 

"Then  I'll  give  you  another,  little  merce- 
nary!" cried  his  mother,  whose  patience  was 
plainly  going.  "Will  that  do?" 

Philip  looked  sad,  but  determined. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  "  'cos  then  I  'd  have 
daddy's  shilling  for  not  doing  nothing,  and 
that's  not  fair,  is  it?"  He  appealed  to  me, 
as  to  a  man's  nicer  sense  of  honor,  to  uphold 
him. 

"Well,"  said  his  mother,  "I  can't  waste  any 
more  time.  If  I  should  n't  be  back,  Mr.  Lingard 
— I  'm  certain  to  be  though"  (as  I  jumped 
visibly)  —  "tell  the  dentist  I  insist  on  Philip's 
having  gas.  He  is  very  brave,  but  extremely 
high-strung  and  sensitive,  poor  darling,  all 
nerves." 

I  looked  at  the  "poor  darling,"  still  busied 
with  his  string,  at  which  during  the  whole 
colloquy  he  had  never  ceased  to  work,  and 
thought  I  had  never  seen  a  more  unlikely 
subject  for  "nerves," — one  more  unruffled, 
calm. 


1 8  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Then  good-by,  darling.  Good-by,  dear  Mr. 
Lingard — so  many  thanks.  You  won't  mind 
mummy  leaving  you,  Phil?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Phil  cheerfully,  submitting  to 
be  kissed. 

"And  you  11  like  being  with  kind  Mr. 
Lingard?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  returned  Phil  honestly, 
and  I  liked  him  for  that. 

In  a  moment  she  was  gone,  perfumes  and 
jingles  and  all.  For  five  minutes  Philip  was 
very  quiet  with  his  string,  but  finally,  having 
it  all  smoothed  out  to  his  satisfaction,  he  rolled 
it  into  a  neat  ring,  put  it  in  his  pocket  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  tilted 
his  chin  back,  and  studied  the  ceiling  intently. 

Then  he  remarked  to  the  Elderly  Gentle- 
man: 

"Bet  you  don't  know  how  many  boards 
in  this  ceiling?" 

The  Elderly  Gentleman,  with  a  grunt,  im- 
mediately snatched  up  the  discarded  paper 
and  ostentatiously  buried  himself  in  its  pages. 
Hints  were  wasted  on  Phil. 

"Try!"  he  said  encouragingly.  "I  would  n't 
of  guessed  my  own  self  if  I  had  n't  counted 
them  first." 

No  reply.     Phil  slipped  down  from  his  chair 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  19 

and  laid  his  hand  on  the  Elderly  Gentleman's 
knee. 

"It  is  n't  twenty-free,"  he  said  insinuatingly. 

As  much  to  his  own  surprise  as  to  that  of 
any  one  else,  the  Elderly  Gentleman  lowered 
his  paper  and  said: 

"Twenty-four,  then." 

" No,"  said  Phil,  "but  you  're  pretty  '  warm.' " 

Thus  encouraged,  the  Elderly  Gentleman 
responded  promptly: 

"Twenty-five!" 

Phil  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"You're  getting  cold  again,"  he  said,  and 
the  Elderly  Gentleman  plunged  wildly. 

"Twenty-six." 

"Colder  'n  colder,"  said  Phil  solemnly. 

"Then,  my  boy,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know," 
said  the  Elderly  Gentleman,  apparently  nettled 
at  his  failure. 

"Give  in?"  cried  Phil  delightedly,  but  at 
this  the  Elderly  Gentleman  suddenly  exhibited 
symptoms  of  backbone. 

"No,  I  won't,"  he  said.  "I'll  have  another 
shot." 

"Very  well,"  said  Phil,  disappointed,  "but 
they  gen 'ally  give  in,  you  know,  after  free  tries." 

"7  don't,"  said  the  other  obstinately.  "Let 
me  see,  now,  I'll  say " 


20  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Don't  look!"  cried  Phil  warningly. 

"I  wasn't,"  cried  the  Elderly  Gentleman 
indignantly. 

"I  thought  p'r'aps  you  might  be  just  squint- 
ing. I  do  sometimes,"  added  Phil  manfully. 
"But  I'll  help  you  a  teeny — it  isn't  twenty- 
one,  and  it  is  n't  twenty-free,  but  it 's  something 
between." 

"Twenty-two,"  cried  the  Elderly  Gentleman 
instantly. 

"Right!"  cried  Phil,  clapping  his  hands, 
"I  knew  you'd  guess  it.  You  couldn't  be 
as  quick  as  me,  of  course.  You're  like  my 
gran 'pa,  so  old,  you  see — about  a  hundred 
I  s'pose?" 

The  Elderly  Gentleman  became  apoplectic; 
the  Sketch  Girl,  who  had  been  listening  shame- 
lessly to  an  entirely  private  conversation,  gave 
a  sudden  trill  of  laughter,  and  then  imme- 
diately bent  over  her  book  and  pretended 
somebody  else  had  done  it.  And  as  no  one 
could  have  possibly  suspected  the  severe 
Spinster  of  such  an  indiscretion,  the  onus  was 
left  on  me,  and  I  felt  annoyed  until  I  reflected 
that  I'd  rather  like  to  be  suspected  of  such  a 
musical  laugh  as  that. 

"God  bless  my  soul,"  sputtered  Phil's  new- 
found friend,  "I  was  sixty  last  birthday." 


21 

"I  was  six  on  my  birfday,"  said  Phil,  "an' 
I  had  a  cake  with  my  name  an'  how  old  I 
was  in  pink  sugar.  Did  you  have  one  with — 
with— all  that?" 

The  Elderly  Gentleman  shook  his  head. 

"No!  no!  I  couldn't  afford  such  extrava- 
gance as  that." 

Phil  looked  concerned,  and  then  he  and 
his  friend  entered  into  an  interesting  conver- 
sation as  to  how  much  the  latter  earned  in  a 
week,  what  his  chief  items  of  expenditure  were, 
and  whether  he  thought,  if  he  saved,  he  might 
be  able  to  have  a  pink-sugared  cake  next 
birthday,  and  the  Elderly  Gentleman,  who 
had  been  snapping  open  a  gold  watch  every 
few  minutes,  and  glaring  at  the  closed  door 
of  the  torture  chamber,  now  looked  quite 
sorry  when  he  was  summoned.  He  shook 
hands  with  Phil,  and  hoped  they  might  meet 
again,  and  Phil  politely  echoed  the  wish,  but 
added  cheerfully  he  "didn't  think  they  ever 
would,  though,"  and  further  proffered  the 
advice  that  if  it  "hurts  very  much,  keep  on 
thinking  about  the  shilling,  and  what  you're 
going  to  buy  with  it." 

Phil  next  spied  the  Sketch  Girl's  dog,  and 
literally  fell  upon  him  with  cries  of  delight, 
and  the  dog,  with  that  delightful  free-masonry 


22  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

of  dogs  and  boys,  responded  in  like  spirit. 
They  rolled  over  and  over  for  a  bit,  and  then 
Phil  sat  up,  with  his  arm  about  the  dog's 
neck,  and  asked  its  mistress: 

"Is  he  yours?" 

The  girl  smiled  and  nodded. 

"What's  his  name?" 

"His  name  is  Gyp." 

"Oh!" 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  very  nice  name  for  a 
dog — 'specially  such  a  nice  dog." 

"What  would  you  call  him  then?" 

"Terry — that's  a  proper  dog  name." 

"And  what  is  your  name,  little  boy?" 

"Philip— what's  yours?" 

"Mine  is  Millicent,"  said  the  Sketch  Girl, 
smiling. 

"  Millersint,"  repeated  Phil  slowly.  "  That 's 
a  nice  name — it  makes  me  feel  jolly." 

"Jolly?    How  do  you  mean?" 

"Millers,  you  know.  There  was  the  'jolly 
miller'  lived  on  the  river  D,  you  know,  an'  he 
cared  for  nobody,  no-nott-i,  an'  nobody  cared 
for  him,  and  there  was  the  other  'jolly  miller' 
with  'one  hand  in  the  copper  and  the  other  in 
the  bag' — how  could  he  make  a  grab,  with  both 
of  his  hands  in  the  copper  and  the  bag?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  23 

' '  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,  Philip.  It  does  seem 
pretty  impossible." 

"I  think  I'll  call  you  Miller." 

"Very  well,"  laughed  the  Sketch  Girl,  "and 
now — tell  me,  have  you  a  dog?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Phil,  rolling  his  canine  friend 
over.  "His  name  is  Terry." 

"O!  I  see!"  her  eyes  were  dancing. 
"And  what  kind  of  a  dog  is  he — a  collie?" 

"No,  he 'snot!" 

"Then  what?" 

"Just  a  dog,"  replied  Phil  gravely,  adding 
quickly,  "What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I'm  not  laughing,  Phil,  really,"  declared 
the  Sketch  Girl,  with  the  suspicious  quaver  of 
some  recent  emotion  in  her  voice. 

"You  were  laughing  inside,"  said  Phil  accus- 
ingly. "I  saw  you  chin  shiver." 

At  this  the  laugh  would  have  its  way,  and  I 
joined  in  the  merriment. 

"Isn't  he  delicious?"  said  the  Sketch  Girl  to 
me  with  dancing  eyes.  They  were  the  dearest 
brown  eyes.  Phil  turned  red.  It  seems  he 
hates  to  be  laughed  at.  Scrambling  up  from 
the  floor,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  Spinster. 

"What  are  you  making?"  he  asked. 

The  Spinster  made  no  reply,  but  continued 
her  work. 


24  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Phil  advanced  his  face  to  within  an  inch 
of  hers. 

"  'Scuse  me  shouting,"  he  said  very  loudly, 
"but  I  think  you  must  be  a  bit  deaf,  like  my 
gran 'pa.  I  ast  you  what  was  you  making?" 

"  Little  boys  should  n't  ask  questions,"  rapped 
out  the  Spinster,  but  her  glance  was  a  little 
softer  as  it  rested  on  the  boy. 

"But  you  would  n't  never  of  told  me,  if  you 
did  n't  know  I  wanted  to  know,"  urged  Phil, 
very  sensibly.  "Is  it  a  little  fishing  net?" 

"No — it    isn't    a    fishing    net." 

"You're  making  it  very  nicely,"  said  Phil 
politely,  and  the  Spinster  actually  smiled. 
He  went  on  hopefully,  "If  it  is  n't  a  fishing  net, 
it  must  be  something  else." 

Phil  is  nothing  if  not  persistent,  I  noted,  and 
the  lady  suddenly  capitulated. 

"It's  a  piece  of  lace — see,"  she  explained, 
"to  trim  a  little  boy  or  girl's  frock." 

"Have  you  any  little  boys?"   asked   Phil. 

"No,  indeed,"  responded  the  Spinster  with 
energy. 

"Any  little  girls?" 

"No!" 

"Not  even  a  dog?"  There  was  a  world  of 
commiseration  in  his  tones. 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  the  Spinster. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  25 

"Then  I'm  very,  very  sorry  for  you,"  said 
Phil  sincerely,  "an'  I  would  come  an'  be  your 
little  boy  if  I  had  n't  of  belonged  to  some  one 
else  'fore  I  saw  you." 

"You're  a  dear  little  boy,"  said  the  Spinster 
suddenly,  and  inclined  impulsively  toward  him, 
but,  recollecting  herself,  sat  bolt  upright,  look- 
ing with  a  certain  air  of  proud  suspicion  at 
the  Sketch  Girl  and  myself.  But  the  former 
was  bending  over  her  dog — she  had  just  done 
so  suddenly — and  I  was  apparently  absorbed 
again  in  "Cause  and  Effect,"  so  the  Spinster 
said,  low  and  hurriedly: 

"Would  you — would  you  give  me  a  kiss, 
my  dear?" 

Philip  considered.  I  held  my  breath.  Phil 
did  not  look  like  a  "kissing"  child,  and  I 
stiffened  to  hear  the  refusal  which  would  congeal 
the  melting  heart  of  the  old  maid  to  ice  again. 
But  Phil  has  a  heart  of  gold  and  the  instincts 
of  a  gentleman — I  trust  any  gentleman  in  his 
situation  would  have  been  no  more  churlish — 
and  he  said  slowly: 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will— if  you  like,"  I  heard 
a  sigh,  it  seemed  of  relief,  from  the  Sketch 
Girl.  "I  don't  gen 'ally  kiss  strangers."  Two 
sturdy  arms  went  round  the  withered  neck, 
a  round  warm  little  cheek  and  two  soft  lips 


26  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

were  pressed  against  the  faded  cheek.  Then 
Phil  said  gently,  with  a  little  wriggle.  "Now 
put  me  down,  please.  You've  cried  all  over 
my  face,"  adding  hastily,  "but  it  doesn't 
matter,  though." 

It  was  as  well  that,  at  that  moment,  the 
Spinster  got  her  summons,  for  I  saw  the  tears 
on  her  cheeks  as  she  hurried  away.  Phil 
planted  himself  in  front  of  me  in  a  stooping 
position,  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  seemed 
intently  studying  my  collar  stud. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?"  I  asked 
him,  to  which  he  replied  with  a  counter-question. 

"Do  yours  stay  in  all  the  time,  or  do  they 
take  out  and  in  like  gran'pa's?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Your  teef,"  he  explained.  "Gran 'pa 
says  they  give  you  two  sets  for  nothing,  but 
the  next  lot  you  must  pay  for.  Did  you  pay 
for  yours?' 

"Well,"  I  said  laughing,  "these  were  a 
presentation  lot,  but  I  have  to  pay  pretty 
heavily  to  keep  them." 

Just  then  the  Sketch  Girl  rose  to  go  into  the 
next  room. 

"Good-by,  Philip,"  she  said. 

"Good-by,  Miller,"  he  responded,  holding 
out  his  hand. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  27 

"Won't  you  give  me  a  kiss?"  she  asked, 
holding  his  hand  tenderly. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  answered  gravely, 
"but  I'll  pat  your  dog." 

"Oh,  but  you  gave  the  other  lady  a  kiss." 

'  'Cos  she  was  lonely,  and  had  no  one  to  kiss 
her — but  you  are  n't  like  that — plenty  of 
people '11  kiss  you." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  replied 
with  a  laugh  and  a  very  charming  color  in  her 
cheeks.  Phil  turned  to  me. 

"You'd  kiss  her,  wouldn't  you?"  he  asked 
anxiously,  but  before  I  could  make  a  suitable 
response,  she  was  gone. 

"Philip,"  I  said,  "I'd  very  much  like  to 
know  that  young  lady's  name." 

"Why?"  said  he. 

"Well — er — I  might  meet  her  again,  and  I 
should  n't  know  what  to  call  her." 

"Call  her  Miller,"  he  suggested  easily. 

"She  mightn't  like  that — my  not  being  an 
old  and  privileged  friend  like  yourself.  What 
shall  I  do  about  it?" 

"Ask  her,"  suggested  Phil,  with  his  sound 
common  sense,  and  I  might  have  acted  on  his 
suggestion  had  not  the  Sketch  Girl,  very  meanly, 
left  by  another  door. 

The  attendant  came  then,  and  said  that  Mr. 


28  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Pullem  thought  it  better  to  attend  to  the  little 
boy's  extraction  first,  as  my  gold-filling  might 
take  some  time.  I  assented,  but  with  rather 
a  sinking  heart,  Phil's  mother,  after  the  perfid- 
ious manner  of  women,  still  being  absent. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  it  being 
substracted?"  asked  Phil  of  me,  very  solemnly. 

"No,  thanks,  Phil,"  I  said  briskly.  "I'll 
wait  here." 

"You  can  come  if  you  like,  you  know," 
he  said  magnanimously. 

"Not  for  worlds,  old  chap,"  said  I. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  me  in  the  red 
velvet  chair  being  screwed  up  to  the  highest 
screw  of  all?"  he  put  forward  as  an  inducement. 
I  shook  my  head,  and  Phil  became  very  silent 
a  while.  Finally  I  heard  a  small  voice: 

"Please — won't  you  come  in  with  me?" 

His  gray  eyes  were  very  wide  and  steady, 
but  there  was  the  faintest  tremble  in  his  tones 
and  I  thought  the  suspicion  of  a  quiver  in  his 
lower  lip,  though  he  strove  manfully  to  steady  it. 
I  could  have  kicked  myself  for  my  obtuseness. 

"Why,  old  fellow,"  I  cried,  "why,  certainly. 
I  did  n't  think.  There 's  nothing  I  'd  like  better 
than  to  see  you  in  the  big  chair." 

He  beamed  gratefully,  and  slipped  a  small 
hand  confidingly  in  mine.  I  felt  the  friendly 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  29 

pressure  of  those  warm,  soft  fingers  long  after 
they  had  left  mine,  and  somehow  it  was  a  good 
feeling. 

"Now,  young  fellow,"  said  the  dentist  briskly, 
and  swung  him  off  his  feet  on  to  the  big  red 
velvet  chair. 

"Screw  it  up  to  its  very  highest  screw, 
please,"  said  Phil  importantly,  and  there  he  sat 
and  beamed  at  me  as  the  chair  rose,  his  silent 
beatific  smile  growing  wider  with  each  inch  of 
ascent. 

"Now  open  your  mouth,"  said  the  dentist. 
"See  this  funny  little  glass  I'm  going  to  pop 
into  it." 

But  Phil  sat  with  closely  locked  jaws,  very 
solemn  now. 

"Heavens,"  thought  I,  "is  he  going  to  kick 
and  scream?" 

"Come,  now,"  said  the  dentist  persuasively, 
"I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  Open." 

Phil's  teeth  were  firmly  clenched,  but  he 
looked  at  me  and  I  thought  I  detected  reproach 
in  his  eye.  I  shifted  uneasily. 

"Come,  old  man!"  I  said  weakly,  trying 
unsuccessfully  to  infuse  authority  into  my  tone. 
Then  Phil  spoke. 

"You  haven't  turned  on  the  gas,"  he  said 
pointedly. 


30  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"The  gas — but  it's  broad  daylight,"  cried 
the  dentist. 

"Oh,"  said  I  hurriedly,  "his  mother  wishes 
him  to  have  an  anesthetic.  He's  so — er — 
sensitive  and — er — all  that." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  dentist,  catching  Phil 
off  his  guard  and  tilting  his  head  back.  "A 
touch  will  have  it  out.  There!  It's  all  over," 
and  he  flourished  a  small  pair  of  forceps  in 
which  a  diminutive  white  tooth  was  firmly 
held.  Surprise  held  Phil  dumb.  I  think  he 
was  rather  in  the  position  of  the  young  lady 
who  was  asked  if  she  had  screamed  when  kissed 
by  surprise.  He  did  n't  know  it  was  going  to 
be  done,  so  he  did  n  't  scream  then,  while  it 
was  being  done  he  could  n't  scream,  and  when 
it  was  all  over  there  was  no  use  in  screaming. 
Suddenly,  however,  he  cried,  with  his  eyes 
like  saucers: 

"Oh,  it's  bleeding!  It's  bleeding!  Is  it 
pouring?" 

There  was  a  tiny  trickle  of  blood  on  his 
chin,  and  deeming  the  event  warranted  it,  he 
opened  his  mouth  for  a  good  roar,  but  in  doing 
so  made  an  interesting  discovery,  and  shut  it 
again  without  roaring. 

"  I  can  put  my  tongue  in  it !"  he  cried.  "  My 
whole  tongue — look!  Can  you  do  that?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  31 

He  demonstrated  his  new  accomplishment 
several  times,  and  then  said: 

"Now  put  a  gold  toof  in — not  the  ones  that 
won't  come  out  like  mummy's,  but  a  take- 
in-and-out-one,  'cos  if  I  got  very  poor  an' 
wanted  to  buy  a  dog,  I  could  give  my  gold 
toof  for  it." 

He  was  rather  disappointed  to  hear  this 
was  not  practicable,  and  together  we  went 
out  into  the  waiting  room. 

Phil's  mother  had  just  rustled  in. 

' '  It 's  out,  mummy ! "  he  cried.     ' '  Look ! ' ' 

"Oh,  my  poor  darling!"  cried  his  mother. 
"  Did  he  suffer  much,  Mr.  Lingard?  Don't  fret 
any  more.  There!  There!  Did  you  miss  me, 
Phil?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Phil  truthfully. 

"But  you  're  glad  to  see  me,  sweetheart?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  answered  he  dutifully.  "Did 
you  bring  the  one  with  the  pink  sugar  on  it?" 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH  WE  MEET  THE  "SKETCH"  GIRL  AGAIN 

TDHILIP    has   a  very    passion   for  numbers, 
for  knowing  exact  quantities,  dimensions, 
"length,  breadth,  depth,  and  height." 

If  I  am  walking  with  Phil — as  I  am  very 
often,  I  am  pleased  to  say — and  find  him  in 
preoccupied  mood,  I  know  he  is  counting  the 
paving  blocks  as  we  go,  taking  the  nicest  care 
not  to  set  foot  on  any  of  the  cracks.  He 
knows  to  a  nicety  how  many  steps  it  takes  to 
reach  the  foot  of  the  stairs  from  the  hall,  and 
can  tell  you  off-hand  such  interesting  facts  as 
how  many  street  lamps  one  passes  in  a  given 
distance,  or  how  many  collective  legs  there  are 
in  the  team  of  horses  we  have  just  passed. 
This  little  idiosyncrasy  of  his  makes  it  rather 
a  labor  to  tell  him  a  story,  which  he  loves 
me  to  do.  For  instance,  "The  Three  Bears," 
a  favorite  of  his,  runs  somewhat  in  this  style. 

I:  "Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  near 
a  wood " 

Phil  (who  has  evidently  a  private  scale  of 
distinction):  "A  wood  or  a  forest?" 

I:   "A  wood — just  a  plain  wood." 

Phil:    "A  big  wood?" 

32 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  33 

I:    "Yes,  a  big,  dark  wood." 

Phil:  "How  big?  'S  big  as  this  garden  an* 
the  next  door  an'  the  next?" 

I:   "Bigger  than  that!" 

Phil:    "How  much  bigger?" 

I:   "As  big  as  all  the  gardens  in  the  street." 

Phil:  "Oh!  G'won."  (He  thumps  me  in 
the  waistcoat.) 

I:  " — near  a  wood,  a  little  girl  called 
Goldenhair  and " 

Phil:   "Why?" 

I:   "Why  what?" 

Phil:   "Goldenhair?" 

I:  "You  know  perfectly — because  of  her 
hair — because  her  corn-colored  locks " 

Phil:   "What?" 

I :   "  Her  corn-colored  locks ' ' 

Phil:  "What's  'at  mean? — corn-colored 
clocks?" 

I  (hastily):  "Just  that! — 'her  golden  hair 
was  hanging  down  her  back' — let  us  proceed." 

Phil:   "All  right.     G'won!" 

I:  "She  lived  with  her  grandmother  for 
many  years,  because  her  parents  had  died  in 
her  infancy." 

Phil:   "How  did  they  get  in  there?" 

I:    "Oh,  bother!     They  were  dead,  anyhow, 

and  she " 

3 


34  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

Phil:    "Was  her  gran'pa  dead  too?" 

I:  "Yes,  they  all  died  when  she  was  a  little 
child." 

Phil:  "How  old  about?" 

I:   "Oh!  five  or  six,  and  so " 

Phil:  "How  old  was  she  when  she  lived 
with  her  granny?" 

I :  "  About  your  age. ' ' 

Phil:  "Six  and  a  bit — then  she  couldn't  a* 
lived  there  many  years." 

I:  "Well,  well!  Let  me  get  on  with  the 
dashed — with  the  story.  One  day  she  went 
away  into  the  wood,  though  she  'd  been  told 
never  to  go  there  because  of  the  wild  beasts— 

Phil:  "Then  it  was  a  forest — there  aren't 
no  wild  beasts  in  a  wood." 

I:  "There  were  in  this  wood.  It  was  an 
enchanted — a  fairy  wood." 

Phil:   "Oh!     G'won!" 

I:  "And  she  came  to  a  teeny  house  with 
teeny  teeny  windows." 

Phil:    "About  as  big  as  a  looking-glass?" 

I  (thinking  to  please  a  child's  sense  of  propor- 
tion): "Yes,  about  that." 

Phil  (who  of  course  knows  the  whole  thing 
by  heart  much  better  than  I  do):  "Then, 
however  's  she  going  to  jump  out  of  the  window 
when  it  comes?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  35 

I  (hastily) :  ' '  Oh !  for  the  same  reason  as  the 
wild  beasts.  It  was  a  fairy  house." 

Phil  (silenced,  but  not  convinced):  "Oh! 
G'won!" 

I :  ' '  When  she  saw  the  bowls  of  porridge ' ' 

Phil  (severely):   "You  're  missing  out  a  lot." 

I  (weakly):   "Oh,  was  I?" 

That  is  the  worst  of  Phil,  skip  but  one  word, 
change  but  one  line  of  the  accepted  version  and 
he  is  down  on  you  at  once  with  a  word-for-word 
correction.  I  come  again  without  much  inter- 
ruption to  the  bowls  of  porridge. 

I :  "  There  she  saw  some  bowls  of  porridge ' ' 

Phil:    "How  many  bowls?" 

I:   "I  don't  know." 

Phil:  "There  were  three  bowls  — you  knowed 
quite  well." 

I:     "But   so   did   you.     Three   bowls " 

(I  pause  dramatically.) 
'  Phil:  "Yes.     G'won!" 

I  proceed  without  much  further  interruption, 
except  for  details  asked  and  supplied  as  to  the 
exact  dimensions  of  Baby  Bear's  chair,  the 
amount  of  porridge  niched  from  Father  Bear's 
bowl,  and  the  number  of  stairs,  and  then  we 
come  to  the  really  thrilling  part  of  the  story. 
Phil's  eyes  grow  bigger,  his  interested  face 
comes  closer  and  closer  to  mine,  his  lips  part 


36  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

a  little  more  as  the  tale  unfolds,  and  so  ab- 
sorbed is  he,  he  even  refrains  from  asking  how 
many  pillows  Baby  Bear's  bed  has.  At  the 
conclusion,  he  gives  a  long  sigh  and  a  short 
wriggle,  and  remarks: 

"Now  tell  me  another." 

"No,  no!    It 's  your  turn.     You  tell  one." 

"I  don't  know  any." 

"Yes,  you  do,  lots!  I  '11  not  tell  another  till 
you  tell  me  one." 

"I  only  know  one,  then." 

"Then  let's  have  it." 

Phil  sighs,  wriggles,  gazes  abstractedly  at  the 
ceiling,  frowns,  and  finally  recites  at  a  rapid 
rate,  and  in  a  style  of  condensation,  yet  omitting 
no  telling  points,  which  should  be  the  envy  of 
the  modern  fiction  writer. 

"Once  upon  a  time — little  girl  Goldenhair— 
near  a  forest — Grandmother — runned  away — 
teeny  house,  looks  in  the  window — goes  inside— 
three  bowls  of  porridge — tastes  them — too  hot! 
too  cold!  just  right — three  chairs — too  high— 
too  low — just  right — chair  breaks — upstairs- 
three  beds — too  hard — too  soft — just  right — 
falls  to  sleep.     Bears  come  home:   Somebody  's 
been   eating   my   porridge — somebody  's   been 
eating  my  porridge — somebody  's  eaten  all  my 
porridge"  (faithful  imitation  of  voices). 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  37 

"Somebody's  been  sitting  in  my  chair - 
somebody  's  been  sitting  in  my  chair — some- 
body 's  broked  my  chair  to  pieces.  Go 
upstairs — somebody  's  been  lying  in  my  bed — • 
somebody's  been  lying  in  my  bed — here's  a 
little  girl  on  my  bed.  Come,  an*  let 's  eat  her 
up—"  (Ditto— Ditto.)  "Little  girl  wakes 
up — jumps  out  of  window  (could  n't  've  been 
teeny  as  a  looking-glass) — runs  home,  an'  that 's 
all — what  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I  'm  so  pleased  to  have  you  tell  me  such  a 
nice  story,"  I  say,  trying  hard  to  steady  my 
voice,  and  hiding  my  streaming  eyes  at  the 
back  of  Phil's  collar  as  he  sits  on  my  knee. 

"Don't  breave  down  my  neck,"  he  says 
briefly,  with  a  wriggle,  and  then  he  is  silent, 
and  I  know  he  is  counting  the  buttons  on  my 
coat. 

"Six,"  says  he,  "and  four  on  the  sleeves, 
counting  one  that  is  teared  off.  Why  does  n't 
some  one  sew  on  your  buttons?" 

"I  Ve  no— one  to  do  it,  Phil." 

"Why  don't  you  get  your  mother  to  do  it?" 

This,  I  know,  refers  to  one  whom  Phil  politely 
calls  "the  lady  what  washes  up." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  'm  afraid  she  would  n't  do  it." 

"Then  why  don't  you  get  another  mother?" 


38  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"I  really  think  I  '11  have  to.  Let 's  go  for  a 
walk,  and  we  might  find  one." 

"Yes,  let 's,"  cried  Phil,  slipping  off  my 
knee  with  alacrity. 

"Where  shall  we  go?" 

"To  the  Gardens!" 

"Very  well,  and  we  '11  take  Terry,  eh?" 

Phil's  face  shone,  than  fell  suddenly  and  he 
said  reprovingly: 

"You  forget!" 

"Forget  what?" 

"Dogs  not  omitted' — on  the  gate,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  oh,  yes!  Well,  we  '11  give  Terry  a  run 
later.  Come  on!" 

This  is  one  of  my  happy  Sundays,  when 
Phil's  mother  lends  me  Phil  for  the  whole  day. 
Other  days,  when  I  run  home  for  lunch  to  my 
bachelor  quarters,  Phil  looks  in  about  that  time. 
He  says: 

"Mummy  says  I  'm  not  to  ask,  but  I  could 
stay  to  lunch  if  you  was  to  ask  me." 

But  Sundays  are  very  good  days.  We  under- 
stand, Phil  and  I,  that  these  Sunday  foregather- 
ings  are  doomed  to  be  soon  ended,  for  Phil  is 
to  go  to  Sunday  school.  Already,  on  five 
mornings  of  the  week,  he  goes  to  what  he  calls 
"Kindergarter,"  where  he  makes  weird  and 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  39 

wonderful  objects  out  of  some  putty-like  sub- 
stance, animals  whose  tails  and  legs  invariably 
fall  off  at  the  joining,  and  flowers  the  like  of 
which  never  bloomed  on  this  terrestrial  sphere; 
and  strange  things,  called  by  familiar  names, 
from  bits  of  colored  paper  cunningly  folded. 
Heaven  knows,  now  that  he  is  becoming  such 
a  man  of  affairs,  what  new  occupations  will 
encroach  upon  his  time.  To-day  has  been  wet, 
and  I  have  been  to  the  door  many  times,  fearing 
my  friend  will  not  come,  but  he  arrives,  very 
rosy  and  damp,  in  a  wet  little  greatcoat,  and 
because  he  loves  to  run  barefoot  he  assures  me 
anxiously  that  his  boots  are  wet  and  wet  boots 
give  people  "ammonia."  I  teased  him  a  bit, 
ruffled  up  his  thick,  damp  hair,  and  finally  took 
him  on  my  knee  and  tugged  at  the  damp  laces. 
Soon  Phil  was  sitting  up  on  my  knee,  curling 
his  bare  pink  toes  in  an  ecstasy. 

Then,  slipping  off,  he  turned  head  over  heels 
several  times,  and  finally,  coming  right  side 
uppermost,  inquired: 

"What  shall  we  do  now?" 

"What?"  said  I. 

"Let's  play  hidy-go-seek,"  said  Phil. 

"Let's!"  said  I. 

"Bones-I  first  hide,"  Phil  said  quickly,  add- 
ing anxiously,  "unless  you  want  it  very  much." 


40  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"No,  you  have  it,"  I  said  with  a  show  of 
unselfishness,  and  Phil  beamed  and  ran  out  of 
the  room,  calling  as  he  did  so: 

"I  '11  tell  you  when  I  'm  ready." 

He  was  back  in  an  instant,  to  whisper 
mysteriously : 

"Don't  look  in  the  stair  cupboard." 

So,  in  obedience  to  his  little  piping  "Ready!" 
I  looked  everywhere  but  in  the  stair  cupboard— 
under  the  couch,  under  the  table,  behind  the 
door  and  the  curtains,  and  then  every  place 
else  being  exhausted,  threw  open  the  stair 
cupboard. 

"Ha!"  said  I,  "now  it 's  my  turn!" 

"That's  not  fair,"  said  Phil.  "I  told  you 
not  to  look  here.  But  you  can  have  your 
turn,"  adding  off-handedly,  "under  the  table  's 
a  good  place  to  hide." 

In  an  astonishingly  short  space  of  time  Phil 
found  me  under  the  table.  He  was  very  pleased 
at  his  acumen,  and  hid  in  the  bathroom  next, 
and  as  he  called  out  warningly:  "Don't  come 
here!"  every  time  I  approached  his  hiding 
place,  I  pretended  to  be  unable  to  find  him, 
and  had  to  shout  out,  "I  give  in!"  which 
pleased  him  very  much  and  he  came  out.  Then 
I  hid  in  the  broom  cupboard,  but  time  passing 
and  it  being  very  stuffy  in  there,  I  emerged 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  41 

rather  fluey,  and  with  dust  in  my  eyes.  I 
found  Phil  curled  up  in  a  big  chair,  nursing  the 
cat  and  looking  rather  bored. 

"Why!"  said  I.     "Couldn't  you  find  me?" 

"You  weren't  under  the  table,"  he  said 
indifferently,  "and  Pussy  came  in,  so  I've 
been  playing  with  her  instead." 

Phil,  as  I  might  have  remembered,  invariably 
goes  to  my  last  hiding  place,  and  never  gets 
over  his  surprise  at  not  finding  me  there. 

"You  're  a  nice  boy!"  I  said  indignantly. 

"Isn't  it  nearly  dinner  time?"  he  asked 
wistfully,  and  we  repaired  to  the  kitchen.  It 
was  Mrs.  Binks'  "Sunday  out,"  so  we  had  to 
get  our  own  dinner. 

Phil  set  the  table,  and  I  cooked  the  sausages. 

They  always  give  me  indigestion,  but  Phil 
loves  them  and  especially  he  loves  pricking  them 
with  a  two-pronged  fork,  and  seeing  little 
sizzles  of  fat  come  out,  and  if  one  bursts  its 
jacket,  and  writhes  inside  out,  he  is  delighted. 

The  cloth  was  very  long  on  one  side,  and  short 
on  the  other,  and  the  knives  and  forks  were 
set  back  to  front  as  it  were,  and  Phil  forgot  to 
put  saucers  to  the  cups,  but  none  of  these 
things  spoiled  our  appetites.  And  afterwards 
we  washed  up,  and  Phil  broke  a  plate,  but  he 
pointed  out  gently  but  firmly  that  it  was  really 


42  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

my  fault,  as  the  plate  was  so  wet  "no  wonder 
it  slipped."  Then,  as  it  was  still  raining,  I 
suggested  we  have  a  nap,  and  we  went  and 
lay  down  on  my  bed.  Phil  rolled  all  over  me, 
thumped  me  in  the  chest  once  or  twice,  drew 
out  my  watch  and  informed  me  it  was  "half 
past,  twenty  past,"  and  after  trying  unsuccess- 
fully to  open  the  back  of  it,  yawned,  rolled 
over  on  his  back,  shut  his  eyes  very  tight,  and 
suggested  "whoever  went  to  sleep  first"  should 
let  the  other  know.  I  assented  gladly,  and 
sweet  peace  reigned  for  exactly  three  seconds. 
Then  Phil  very  cautiously  opened  one  eye, 
but  catching  mine,  shut  his  again  quickly,  and 
lay  very  still  a  moment,  sighed,  fidgeted,  and 
sat  up,  remarking  he  was  tired  of  being  asleep, 
and  "let's  play  horses."  Being  on  the  point 
of  succumbing  myself,  I  merely  grunted,  half 
opened  my  eyes,  and  shut  them  again.  Then 
followed  a  period  of  torment,  while  small 
fingers  endeavored  to  prop  my  eyes  open, 
pulled  my  face  this  way  and  that,  and  rumpled 
my  hair,  while  lips  breathed  into  my  ear  an 
unintelligible  jargon  which  I  was  too  far  gone 
to  gather  the  import  of.  I  made  vague  and 
blurred  replies  very  wide  of  the  mark,  I  dare 
say  (for  once  I  distinctly  heard  an  "  It's  so  silly, 
you  know"),  groaned,  and  grunted,  and  the  last 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  43 

thing  I  remember  is  Phil  astride  of  my  chest, 
his  fingers  in  my  shirt  collar.  When  I  awoke 
the  rain  had  ceased,  and  Phil  was  sound  asleep, 
his  fingers  clutched  in  my  watch  chain,  his  bare 
legs  disposed  gracefully  across  my  waistcoat. 
As  I  watched  him,  his  eyes  opened  slowly.  He 
rubbed  them  with  his  two  little  fists,  yawned, 
stretched  like  a  kitten,  and  sat  up,  remarking 
with  no  reference  to  the  lapse  of  time:  "Now 
what  '11  we  do?" 

Then,  as  the  sun  was  shining  in  a  cloudless 
sky,  followed  our  walk  to  the  Gardens.  The 
Gardens  looked  all  the  brighter  for  the  rain; 
the  grassy  terraces,  twinkling  with  a  thousand 
gems  in  the  sunlight,  sloped  down  to  the  blue 
harbor  waters.  Nurse  maids  and  mothers  and 
fathers  sat  about  on  the  green-painted  seats, 
and  children  ran  races  on  the  grass.  We  found 
a  seat  which,  being  in  the  shade  of  a  thickly 
leafed  tree,  was  quite  dry,  and  Phil's  boot  lace 
having  worked  loose  I  had  to  kneel  on  one  knee 
in  the  damp  grass  to  fix  it.  It  was  an  obstinate 
lace,  wet  and  knotted,  and  Phil  proffered  advice 
in  his  cool  clear  little  voice  as  to  its  undoing. 
A  young  lady  on  the  same  seat,  apparently 
absorbed  in  a  book,  turned  quickly  and  ex- 
claimed: "Why,  it  is  Philip!  How  do  you 
do,  Philip?" 


44  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

I  lifted  my  hat  hastily,  and  scrambled  awk- 
wardly to  my  feet. 

It  was  none  other  than  the  Sketch  Girl,  looking 
charming  in  a  white  frock  and  large  hat,  and  her 
eyes  were  alight  with  pleasure  at  the  meeting. 
But  alas,  it  was  at  Phil  she  smiled,  and  only 
returned  a  careless  nod  to  my  greeting. 

"Have  you  forgotten  me,  Phil?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Phil,  but  no  amount  of  pressing 
could  induce  him  to  name  her,  and  she  said, 
with  a  little  sigh: 

"Children's  memories  are  so  short.  I  sup- 
pose I  could  n't  expect  a  little  fellow  like  that 
to  remember  me  at  all." 

"I  dare  say,"  I  said  cunningly,  "if  you  were 
to  recall  your  name  to  him  he  'd  remember 
where  he  met  you." 

"I  dare  say  he  would,"  she  rejoined  coolly, 
and  then  Phil  remarked,  apropos  of  nothing 
in  particular,  "How  is  your  dog?" 

She  gave  a  little  shriek  of  delight. 

"He  remembers  me  all  the  time,  the  darling! " 
she  cried.  "Phil,  what  is  my  name?" 

"Miller — you  told  me  your  own  self,"  he 
answered.  "Didn't  she,  Ruddy?  This  is  my 
friend  Ruddy — you  know  him,  too,"  he  added, 
giving  the  meeting  the  familiar  flavor  of  a 
reunion  of  three  old  friends  long  parted. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  45 

I  may  mention  here  that  my  name  is  Clifford 
James,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  Phil  prefers 
to  call  me  ' '  Ruddy . "  I  do  not  know  his  reasons . 
He  is  reticent  about  them,  but  knowing  him 
as  I  do,  I  make  no  doubt  he  has  reasons,  for 
he  is  an  eminently  reasonable  soul.  I  once 
asked  him,  as  a  favor,  to  explain,  and  after  a 
long  silence  he  murmured,  "It  seems  like  Ruddy 
to  me,"  so  I  pressed  him  no  further. 

"Well,  I  'm  delighted  to  see  you  again,  Phil," 
said  the  Sketch  Girl. 

"Ruddy  wants  awfully  much  to  know  your 
name,"  said  Phil,  and  while  I  reddened  con- 
fusedly the  girl  laughed — heartlessly,  I  thought. 

"He  doesn't  want  your  own  name,"  went 
on  this  enfant  terrible,  "but  your  properly  name. 
But  why  can't  he  call  you  Miller?  He  says 
you  would  n't  like  it,  but  you  would  n't  mind, 
would  you?" 

"Well,  Phil,"  she  returned,  "I  like  to  keep 
that  name  for  my  very  great  friends,  like  your- 
self, you  see." 

"Will  you  be  Ruddy's  mother  then,  and  sew 
on  his — oh,  oh,  ugh!  Ruddy — what  you — 
holdin' — me — upsides  down  for?"  For  I  had 
swept  him  off  his  feet  and  flung  him  across  my 
shoulder  in  the  endeavor  to  stem  the  tide  of 
his  indiscretions.  When  I  set  him  right  side 


46  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

up  again  the  Sketch  Girl  was  nodding  good-by 
to  me,  and  after  an  affectionate  farewell  to  Phil, 
moved  away. 

Then  I  made  a  discovery.  On  the  seat  she 
had  left  the  book  she  had  been  reading.  With 
an  entire  lack  of  principle  (and  thanking  my 
stars  it  was  not  a  circulating-library  book)  I 
shamelessly  opened  it  at  the  flyleaf.  The 
Fates  were  kind.  On  the  page,  written  in  a  bold 
hand,  was  the  inscription:  "Millicent  Lynn, 
from  her  devoted  D.  A."  My  satisfaction  was 
much  qualified  by  the  unmistakably  masculine 
style  of  the  handwriting,  and  I  immediately 
conceived  a  violent  dislike  to  D.  A. 

"Here,  Phil,"  said  I,  "run  after  your  friend 
with  this  book."  But  the  moment  he  had 
trotted  off  I  blamed  myself  for  a  fool.  Had  I 
kept  that  book,  on  our  next  meeting  (it  was 
bound  to  happen  sooner  or  later)  what  an 
opening  it  would  have  been  for  me !  I  pictured 
myself  drawing  the  book  from  my  pocket 
and  saying: 

"Allow  me  to  restore  you  your  property, 
Miss  Lynn — and  let  me  make  a  confession.  I 
read  a  page  or  two  and  became  so  absorbed — 

No,  that  would  n't  do.  As  the  gift  of  D.  A. 
the  book  must  be  trumpery,  trashy,  or  better 
still,  in  bad  taste,  even  unprincipled.  I  would 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  47 

delicately  hint  as  much,  and  that  would  lead 
to  a  discussion  on  books  which  would  reveal 
our  mutual  tastes  (I  felt  sure  they  would  be 
mutual),  and  I  would  offer  to  lend  her  books. 
"Books  are  such  a  bond,"  I  would  say,  and 
she  would  hesitate,  blush  prettily,  and  invite 
me  to  call — with  the  books,  and  I  would 
immediately  have  to  go  and  buy  some  books, 
as  the  only  ones  I  possessed  were  one  shelf  of 
battered  law  books,  a  pile  of  dilapidated  paper- 
backed novels,  Webster's  dictionary,  a  Shake- 
speare, and  my  mother's  Bible. 

I  was  deep  in  these  pleasant  thoughts  when 
I  chanced  to  look  up,  and  saw  Phil  and  Miss 
Lynn  again  saying  good-by.  Phil  is  a  lucky 
fellow,  and  yet  see  with  what  callous  insensi- 
bility he  wipes  off  the  sweet  salute  of  those 
lips  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  jauntily 
swings  my  stick  with  which  he  has  been  playing 
horses !  At  that  moment,  a  dog,  a  lean,  vicious, 
wolfish-looking  creature,  which,  as  Phil  after- 
wards explained  to  me,  could  not  have  seen  the 
notice  on  the  gate  about  "omitting"  dogs, 
leaped  up  from  beneath  a  bush,  and  with  snarl- 
ing jaws  sprang  straight  at  the  boy  and  his 
companion.  The  girl  shrieked,  and  snatched 
at  Phil's  hands,  while  I  started  to  run  toward 
them,  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  But  Phil,  with 


48  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

admirable  coolness,  brandished  his  stick  and 
faced  the  snarling  brute. 

"Get  out!"  he  shouted  energetically,  and  if 
there  was  a  slight  tremor  in  his  tones  it  only 
showed  the  stoutness  of  his  heart.  And  he 
actually  hit  the  dog  a  sharp  blow  across  the  nose. 
The  creature,  cowardly  like  all  such  canaille  of 
the  streets,  gave  a  surprised  yelp  of  pain,  turned 
tail,  and  fled.  When  I  came  up  Phil  was  a 
little  pale  but  very  calm,  and  the  girl  was 
laughing  hysterically  and  hugging  him. 

"You're  not  hurt,  Phil?"  I  cried  anxiously, 
snatching  him  up. 

"No,"  said  Phil  wriggling.  "Don't  squeeze 
me  so  hard." 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  brave?" 
cried  the  girl.  "He  stayed  to  face  that  raging 
brute  simply  to  protect  me.  Were  you  afraid 
the  wicked  brute  would  hurt  me  if  you  went 
away,  darling?"  tenderly. 

"  No ! "  said  Phil  truthfully.   ' '  That  was  n't  it . " 

"  Oh ! "  she  said,  a  little  taken  aback.  ' '  Then 
why  did  n't  you  run  away?" 

"'Cos,"  Phil  explained  gravely,  "dogs  can 
gen'ally  run  faster  'n  little  boys." 

A  moment's  stunned  silence  followed,  which 
was  broken  by  a  simultaneous  peal  of  laughter 
from  the  Sketch  Girl  and  myself.  The  hero 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  49 

walked  away,  very  red  and  offended,  and  the 
girl  called  after  him  merrily: 

"I  insist  on  looking  on  you  as  my  preserver, 
nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  modest  disclaimers." 

And  Phil  muttered,  "I  don't  care — I  didn't 
—so  there!" 

This  was  like  Phil ;  not  a  timid  child,  or  a  fool- 
hardily valiant  one,  he  chose  the  cautious  path, 
if  possible,  but  if  necessary,  faced  danger  with  no 
fuss  or  ostentation.  I  once  asked  him  what  he 
would  choose  as  his  profession,  and  after  weigh- 
ing the  question  he  intimated  that  he  was 
divided  in  his  mind  between  a  bishop  and  a 
car  conductor. 

"Not  a  soldier?"  said  I,  surprised,  for  he  had 
a  regular  little  armory  of  weapons  in  his  play- 
room, and  a  crimson  helmet.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"Too  dangerous!"  he  said  gravely. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Phil  and  I  again 
went  to  the  Gardens,  and  on  the  next  after  that 
Phil  hinted  that  a  change  of  pleasure  ground 
might  be  pleasant.  He  said  the  beach  at  Manly 
was  a  very  nice  place  on  Sundays.  But  I  had  a 
purpose,  of  which,  of  course,  he  could  suspect 
nothing,  and  on  the  third  Sunday  we  again 
wended  our  way  to  the  Gardens.  On  this 
occasion  I  had  to  bribe  Phil  with  a  promise  of 

4 


50  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

feeding  the  tortoise  and  the  cassowary.  Accord- 
ingly we  had  watched  the  slow  meanderings  of 
the  tortoise  in  its  hard-shell  mail,  which  Phil 
rather  aptly  compared  to  the  "lid  of  a  'normous 
oyster  with  hinges."  It  turned  its  flat  head 
from  side  to  side  in  a  decided  negative  to  Phil's 
ofler  of  biscuits  and  chocolates,  as  it  crept  up 
and  down  the  bare  track  it  had  worn  in  the  grass 
with  its  in-turned  toes.  We  had  looked  at  the 
cassowary  from  a  respectful  distance,  and  fed  the 
amber-eyed,  red-billed,  black  swans  with  bis- 
cuits. They  gave  little  plaintive  squeaking 
cries  which  Phil  said  meant  "Thank  you,  kind 
little  boy ! "  but  I  was  inclined  to  think  they  were 
like  the  daughters  of  the  horse  leech,  crying 
' '  Give !  Give ! ' '  Then  we  visited  the  bird  house, 
and  afterwards  walked  three  times  round  the 
wishing  tree,  and  Phil  could  by  no  means  be 
prevailed  upon  to  tell  his  wish,  though  he  said 
it  was  something  to  do  with  his  birthday  and 
a  motor  car  "that  would  go." 

He  allowed  me  three  guesses,  and  when  I  hit 
upon  the  truth,  he  said  in  surprise,  "Who  told 
you?"  and  wanted  to  know  my  wish,  but  I 
was  firm  and  would  not  confess.  Then  we 
strolled  down  to  the  ornamental  water,  and 
there  my  wish  "came  true."  I  found  her 
sitting  in  the  shade,  gazing  pensively  at  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  51 

throng  of  skimming  yachts  and  gay  little 
launches  passing  up  and  down,  and  at  the  same 
moment  I  found  I  had  much  underrated  the 
perspicacity  of  my  young  friend.  For,  as  I 
lifted  my  hat  with  a  rather  hypocritical  air  of 
surprise,  Phil  ran  forward,  crying: 

"Oh,  here  you  are  at  last!  Ruddy  an'  me 
has  been  looking  for  you  every  Sunday  for 
monfs — haven't  we,  Ruddy?" 

Then,  to  cover  the  momentary  awkwardness, 
I  said:  "Phil  is  anxious  to  thank  you  for  the 
toy  you  so  kindly  sent  him.  He  has  started 
many  letters  to  you " 

"Ruddy  made  me,"  interjected  Phil,  and  I 
went  on  hurriedly: 

"He  has  ruined  two  of  my  best  pens  and  at 
least  six  sheets  of  my  best  notepaper,  but  as  he 
did  n't  know  your  address,  you  see " 

I  waited,  but  she  only  turned  to  Phil  with  a 
mischievous  smile. 

"Did  you  like  the  little  toy  dog,  dear?" 

"He  was  a  very  nice  dog,"  replied  Phil 
diplomatically. 

"And  you  liked  him?" 

"I  liked  every  bit  of  him  except  his  tail." 

"His  tail! — but  that  was  the  best  part  of 
him,  I  thought,"  she  cried,  "it  wagged  so 
beautifully." 


52  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"It  didn't  wag  when  I  had  him,"  said  Phil 
positively. 

"Oh,  it  must  have.  Why  shouldn't  his 
tail  wag?" 

"He  didn't  have  no  tail  to  wag,"  said  Phil, 
finally  disposing  of  all  argument. 

"Broken!"  cried  the  Sketch  Girl.  "What  a 
pity!  But  never  mind,  I  '11  send  you  another." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  'd  rather  have  a  motor 
car  this  time." 

"And,  Phil,"  I  put  in  craftily,  "you  'd  better 
ask  the  address,  as  you  '11  certainly  want  to 
write  a  letter  of  thanks." 

"I  '11  send  it  with  my  present,  to  you,  Phil," 
said  the  Sketch  Girl.  Checkmate  for  me! 

I  sat  down  on  the  seat  beside  her,  and  in 
defiance  of  all  park  regulations  I  wrote  with 
my  cane  in  the  newly  turned  mould  of  a  flower 
bed,  certain  initials. 

"I  know  those  letters!"  cried  Phil  officiously. 
"I  learn  them  at  the  Kindergarter.  That  's  D 
for  dog,  and  that 's  A  for — for  something  else." 

"They  don't  please  me  at  all,"  I  said,  gazing 
at  them  disparagingly.  "Do  they  strike  you 
as  pleasing,  Phil?" 

"No,"  said  Phil  promptly;  "you've  made 
D  for  dog  very  bad." 

"And   what   do   you   think,    Miss    Lynn?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  53 

I  asked  boldly,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  start. 

"I  think,"  she  said  deliberately,  "that  over- 
curious  people  must  not  expect  to  be  always 
pleased  with  their  discoveries." 

Soon  after  she  left  us,  but  she  had  pledged 
herself  to  write  to  Phil  very  soon.  If  I  don't 
get  the  reading  of  that  letter,  and  have  a  finger 
in  the  answering  of  it,  may  I  never  walk  with 
Phil  again! 

I  carried  Phil  home  after  tea,  and  as  he  was 
very  tired,  and  it  was  dark,  he  did  not  feel 
his  manhood  outraged,  but  laid  a  sturdy  arm 
about  my  neck,  and  worked  his  fingers  well 
down  inside  my  collar  band  and  chatted  sociably. 

"I  like  you  awfully,  Ruddy,"  he  said  in  a 
moment  of  expansiveness. 

"Do  you,  old  chap?    That 's  good!" 

"Nearly  's  well  as  I  like  Terry." 

"As  well  as  you  like  Millicent?"  I  asked  for 
the  pure  pleasure  of  repeating  the  name,  which 
I  could  do  to  Phil  without  fear  of  censure. 

"Oh,  better— but  I  love  her  dog." 

By  and  by  his  little  voice  trailed  off  sleepily, 
his  head  drooped  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  only 
roused  up  once  to  say  gently: 

"I  know  you  love  me  very  much,  Ruddy, 
but  don't  squeeze  me  so  hard." 


CHAPTER  III 

IN   WHICH    WE    RECEIVE   AND   WRITE   A   LETTER 

TT  was  Saturday,  and  a  half -holiday,  and 
Phil's  mother  had  said  he  might  "come 
over  and  play"  with  me.  He  arrived  as  I 
was  finishing  my  solitary  lunch,  just  in  time 
for  the  last  helping  of  apple  pie.  After  finishing 
it  off,  and  turning  his  emptied  cup  upside  down 
on  his  chin  to  drain  out  the  sugar,  he  slid  down 
from  his  chair,  played  with  the  cat  till  she 
saw  her  opportunity  and  bolted  through  the 
window,  counted  all  the  tiles  in  the  grate  and 
the  collective  chair  legs,  and  then  said: 

"What  11  we  do  now?" 

"Oh,  you  just  trot  round  a  bit,"  said  I. 
"I  'm  going  to  have  a  smoke  and  a  think." 

"Are  you  going  to  smoke  first  and  then  think, 
or  are  you  going  to  think  first  and  smoke  after- 
wards, or  are  you ' 

"Yes,  yes,  that 's  just  exactly  what  I  am 
going  to  do,  Philip,"  I  interrupted  firmly. 

"Bet  you  can't  guess  what  I  've  got." 

"No,  I  can't  indeed." 

"It 's  a  letter." 

My  indifference  vanished,  and  as  I  stretched 
out  my  hand  for  it  I  cried  so  reproachfully: 

54 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  55 

"Why  ever  didn't  you  say  so  before?"  that 
Phil  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  observed  very 
justly: 

"I  needn't  not  have  told  you  at  all,  if  I 
did  n't  want.  I  '11  give  you  free  guesses  where 
I  keep  it." 

At  the  same  time  his  little  brown  hand  closed 
tightly  over  the  pocket  of  his  jumper. 

"In  your  pocket,"  said  I  instantly. 

"Who  told  you?"  he  asked,  disappointed. 

"No  one.  I  guessed.  Come,  give  it  me," 
I  said  impatiently. 

"It 's  my  letter,"  he  reminded  me,  and  pro- 
duced it  very  slowly,  and  I  knew  he  was  re- 
flecting— and  feeling  rather  injured — that  I 
had  broken  the  chief  law  of  the  game  of  guessing, 
the  etiquette  of  which  provides  that  in  three 
shots  one  must,  in  courtesy,  make  at  least 
two  misses. 

Yet  when  I  opened  the  letter  I  found  that 
aggravating  girl  had  given  as  her  address, 
G.  P.  O.,  City.  I  could  fancy  the  mischievous 
glint  in  her  eyes  as  she  wrote  it,  knowing  it 
would  come  into  my  hands. 

I  remained  silent  so  long,  and  pulled  at  my 
pipe  so  hard,  that  at  last  Phil  ventured: 

"You  've  thunk  a  long  while,  Ruddy." 

The    wistfulness    in    his    tones    pierced    my 


56  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

abstraction,  and  I  shook  myself  together,  for 
he  had  been  very  good  and  quiet. 

"Well,  yes,"  I  said;  "the  fact  is,  I  'm  really 
in  a  nasty  hole,  Phil." 

"Where?"  he  cried,  and  walked  twice  round 
my  chair,  adding  coldly,  "Don't  you  know 
it 's  wicked  to  tell  stories?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  old  chap.  I  was  speak- 
ing figuratively." 

"Oh!"  said  Phil,  in  a  tone  implying  that 
this  put  things  in  quite  another  light,  and  he 
was  now  satisfied. 

"Come  here,"  I  went  on,  and  when  he  was 
seated  on  my  knee,  "You  're  a  wise  little  chap, 
Phil,"  I  said,  "and  I  want  your  advice." 

"Certainly,"  said  Phil  gravely,  which  is  a 
grown-up  little  trick  of  his,  picked  up  from 
some  one.  I  sometimes  talk  wise  nonsense  to 
Phil,  and  far  over  his  head,  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  that  look  of  serious  attention  and  polite 
interest,  and  sometimes,  because  I  am  a  lonely 
sort  of  a  chap,  and  it  pleases  me  to  air  my 
thoughts  before  one  who  will  listen,  and  grasp 
the  words,  but  not  the  significance. 

"Now,  Phil,"  said  I,  "what  would  you  do  if 
you  had  been  rather  badly  burned,  at  a  flame 
that  had  heat,  but  more  brilliance  than  living 
warmth,  I  fear?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  57 

"I  'd  go  to  the  doctor,"  said  Phil  promptly, 
"an*  get  him  to  put  some  griceline  ointment 
on  it." 

"Ah,  but,"  said  I  in  perverse  triumph  at  the 
hopelessness  of  my  case,  "supposing  the  hurt 
and  the  healing  came  from  the  same  source,  that 
the  doctor  and  the  flame  were  the  same  person? " 

"That,"  said  Phil,  rather  disdainfully,  as  he 
got  down  and  walked  away,  "isn't  true,  of 
course.  Some  sauces  do  burn,  like  'marter 
sauce,  but  a  doctor  could  n't  be  a  brazing 
flame,  'cos  if  he  came  near  to  make  sick  people 
well  he  'd  burn  them  up  and  make  them  worser, 
and  then  no  one  would  have  that  doctor  any 
more." 

Phil's  illuminating  logic  is  always  difficult 
to  combat,  so  I  remained  silent  a  moment. 
Then  I  murmured,  half  to  myself  but  eying 
Phil  abstractedly,  "All's  fair  in  love  and  war. 
I  wonder — there  is  an  afternoon  clearance  at 
one-thirty.  Would  she  consider  it  legitimate, 
or  otherwise?  Would  she,  touched  by  my 
devotion,  my  vigil  on  the  post-office  steps, 
graciously  relent  and  smile,  or  would  she  flare 
up  in  wrath,  freeze  into  cold  dignity,  and 
never  look  at  me  again?" 

Said  Phil,  "What  are  you  talking  about?" 

Said  I,   "The  complex — the    abstract — the 


58  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

altogether  inscrutable — the  elusive  and  mutable 
—the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx — a  woman's  mind. 
Phil,  what  can  we  make  of  it?  Advise  me, 
dear  friend,  advise  me." 

Phil  had  been  looking  at  me  very  intently 
during  this  inspired  harangue,  which,  privately, 
I  thought  rather  fine.  Now  he  said  bluntly: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  'm  going 
to  play  with  the  cat." 

It  served  me  right.  My  conscience  smote  me, 
and  I  sprang  up. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  game  of  draughts?" 
I  asked,  and  Phil  became  responsive.  Phil 
rather  fancies  himself  at  draughts.  Now,  when 
I  am  in  my  right  senses,  and  thinking  what  I 
am  about,  Phil  always  beats  me  badly,  but 
to-day,  being  in  a  preoccupied  mood  and 
culpably  absent-minded,  I  won  two  games  in 
succession,  swept  Phil's  poor  little  forces  from 
the  field,  and  was  mechanically  setting  out  the 
board  again,  when  I  glanced  at  my  opponent. 
He  was  very  flushed,  and  as  he  met  my  eye 
he  tried  to  smile  bravely,  but  his  lower  lip 
quivered  ever  so  slightly  as  he  said:  "I  'm 
not  quite  becustomed  to  this  way  of  playing 
draughts." 

After  that  my  blunders  became  quite  fre- 
quent, but  not  so  frequent  as  to  arouse  Phil's 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  59 

suspicions,  which  I  had  done  once  by  willfully 
neglecting  to  take  his  king.  To  my  surprise, 
Phil  had  pushed  away  the  board,  and  refused 
to  play  any  more  because,  he  said,  I  was  "not 
trying." 

However,  on  this  occasion  he  beat  me  hollow 
and  his  equanimity  quite  restored,  he  said  with 
gracious  patronage: 

"It's  very  nice  for  you  to  win  sometimes, 
Ruddy." 

"Phil,"  said  I,  "we  must  n't  forget  to  answer 
our  letter." 

"My  letter,"  corrected  Phil  with  decision. 

"Well,  yes,"  I  admitted;  "but  you  're  going 
to  let  me  help  you  to  answer  it,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied  with  cheerful  indiffer- 
ence; "you  can  do  it  all,  if  you  like,  Ruddy. 
I  don't  mind." 

"Oh,  but  that  won't  do  at  all.  Millicent 
expects  a  letter  from  you.  Thank  her  for  that 
jolly  boat  she  sent,  and  tell  her  it  was  the 
very  thing  you  wanted." 

"Oh,  but  it  isn't,"  said  Phil.  "It  was  the 
motor  car  I  wanted,  but  she  said  she  had  n't 
enough  pennies.  I  'm  sorry  for  her,  Ruddy. 
Could  n't  you  give  her  some  of  your  money  out 
of  the  bank?  She  said  she " 

"She!    She!"     I  interrupted  testily,  in  my 


60  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

irritability  reverting  to  a  vulgarism  of  my 
nursery  days.  "She's  the  cat's  mother." 

"Is  she?"  asked  Phil,  staring  at  me  in  such 
extreme  surprise  that  I  hurried  on. 

"Look  here,  wouldn't  you  like  to  answer 
that  letter  now?" 

"I  'd  rather  go  to  the  Zoo." 

"Another  time  we  '11  go.  But  now,  what 
about  the  letter?" 

Phil  gave  a  wriggle. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"But  I  can  tell  you." 

"Then  that 'd  be  your  letter.  You  don't 
know  what  I  want  to  say." 

On  the  condition  that  if  the  letter  was  written 
within  the  half -hour  we  should  spend  the  rest  of 
the  day  at  the  Zoo,  Phil  reluctantly  consented. 

I  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the  table,  placed  two 
cushions  on  it,  and  there  throned  my  scribe,  put 
pen,  ink,  and  paper  before  him,  and,  lighting 
my  pipe,  sat  down  to  give  help,  encouragement, 
and  instructions.  I  need  not  have  troubled. 

"I  '11  show  you  how  to  begin,"  I  said. 

"I  know  how,"  returned  Phil  confidently. 
"I  've  writ  lots  of  letters  to  gran'pa." 

"You  write  your  address  in  the  right-hand — " 

"  I  know! "  he  said  with  a  preliminary  wriggle, 
and  dipping  his  pen  very  deep. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  61 

"And  when  you've  done  that,  write  'Dear 
Millicent.'" 

"I  know,"  he  returned  discouragingly. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  I  said,  and  was  silent, 
watching  him;  his  small  earnest  face,  his  head 
on  one  side,  his  small  pink  tongue  protruded, 
and  quivering  in  sympathy  with  delicate  up- 
strokes, and  curling  decisively  at  the  corners, 
with  firm  down-strokes.  He  dipped  very  fre- 
quently and  very  deeply,  dropped  blots  gener- 
ously, breathed  hard,  spelled  audibly  and 
generally  incorrectly,  letter  for  letter,  as  he 
wrote,  and  after  three  attempts — Phil  never 
gave  up  a  thing  once  attempted — handed  the 
finished  effusion  to  me  with  an  air  of  modest 
pride.  This  was  his  letter,  minus  phonetic 
spelling,  which  was  managed  rather  ingeniously, 
and  punctuated  by  myself: 

"DEAR  MILLICENT — 

"How  are  you  getting  on?  I  hope  you 
are  quite  well.  I  am  quite  well  thank  you. 
Ruddy  is  quite  well.  We  are  all  quite  well. 
How  is  your  dog?  I  hope  he  is  quite  well. 
Thank  you  for  the  jolly  boat.  It  is  the  very 
thing  I  wanted,  but  I'm  sorry  you  have  not 
got  enough  pennies  for  the  motor  car.  I 
will  give  you  some  of  mine  when  I  break  open 
my  bank,  and  Ruddy  will  give  you  some  of 
his.  His  bank  is  bigger  than  mine.  It  is 


62  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

that  one  near  the  post  office,  with  the  curly 
iron  windows.  It  is  a  very  nice  one,  but  it  is 
the  kind  what  floats  on  to  its  side  when  you 
put  it  in  the  bath,  but  Ruddy  will  fix  it  one 
of  these  fine  days.  I  send  love  and  lots  of 
kisses"  (here  followed  the  orthodox  symbols), 
"and  Ruddy  send  lots  too  from 

"Your  loving  grandson, 

"PHILIP" 

Phil  was  watching  me  intently,  and  in  the 
stress  of  my  emotion  I  was  obliged  to  lift  the 
sheet  of  paper  between  my  face  and  his  earnest 
eyes.  I  held  the  paper  so  long  thus,  that 
Phil  lost  patience,  and  remarked: 

"You  must  read  very  bad  to  take  so  long." 

Even  yet  I  could  not  trust  my  voice,  and 
the  paper  shook. 

"Is  it  good?"  he  asked  with  the  complacent 
air  of  a  favorite  pupil  waiting  for  his  accus- 
tomed meed  of  praise. 

"Yes,"  I  said  weakly,  and  my  treacherous 
voice  broke. 

Phil  jumped  up. 

"You're  laughing!"    he  said  accusingly. 

"No,  no,  I'm  not."  With  an  effort  I 
mastered  my  unseemly  levity.  "But  see,  old 
man,  you  must  n't  sign  yourself  like  this." 

"Oh,  I  always  end  my  letters  that  way," 
said  Phil  airily. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  63 

"Yes,  but  then  you  were  writing  to  your 
grandfather." 

"That's  the  way  I  write  letters,"  he  re- 
marked, quite  gently  but  with  obstinate  finality. 

"But,  hang  it  all,  Miss  Lynn  is  not — Great 
heavens! — your  grandfather,  boy!" 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  Zoo  now?"  As  one 
who  tactfully  waives  useless  discussion. 

"Oh,  have  it  your  own  way,"  I  said.  "Stick 
it  in  an  envelope  and  write  the  address." 

He  did  so,  licking  the  envelope  flap  exten- 
sively, and  writing  the  address  on  a  very  up- 
hill gradient.  He  carelessly  brushed  aside 
Millicent's  note,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor.  Think- 
ing myself  unobserved,  I  picked  it  up  and 
slipped  it  into  my  pocket,  and  took  Phil  to 
the  bathroom  to  wash  his  face  and  hands 
and  brush  his  thick  obstinate  hair,  and  from 
behind  a  damp  sponge  he  gave  me  an  account, 
unavoidably  disjointed,  of  how  his  mother's 
maid  washed  his  face  in  moments  of  emer- 
gency, concluding  the  edifying  recital  with  the 
perfectly  reasonable  remark  that  he  "didn't 
mind"  it  being  her  "handkershif,"  but  he'd 
rather  it  was  his  own  "lick." 

We  caught  a  car,  and  after  counting  the 
windows  he  spelled  out  the  advertisements, 
as  thus: 


64  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"O— b— a— n.     What 's  that  spell,  Ruddy?" 
"Oban." 

"What?" 

"Oban,  an  advertisement  for  a  tie  fastener." 

"What's  the  man  making  that  ugly  face 
for?  Has  he  just  had  a  dose  of  eucalyptus?" 
(Eucalyptus  is  Phil's  bete  noir.) 

"No!    No!    He  can't  fasten  his  tie  right." 

"I  wouldn't  make  a  face  like  that  if  I 
could  n't  fasten  my  tie." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"I'd  get  my  mother  to  fasten  it  for  me. 
What 's  the  next  one  about?  I — t.  I  know 
that  word — it!  It  c — h — a — s — e — s— 

"Chases,"      I      prompted.      "It     chases— 
d — i — r — t.    What's  that  spell,  now?     Come. 
It  chases " 

"The  cat,"  hazarded  Phil  in  a  flash  of 
inspiration,  his  own  experience  probably  sug- 
gesting the  quarry.  Then  a  little  later,  in  a 
very  audible  voice,  he  asked: 

"What 's  that  man  pull  up  his  trouser  legs 
for  when  he  sits  down?" 

"Hush!" 

"What  for  hush?    Why  does  he  for,  Ruddy?  " 

"He  does  n't  want  to  bag  'em  at  the  knees." 

"What?" 

"He  does  n't  want  them  to  get  out  of  shape." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  65 

"Why?" 

"Well,  he  does  n't,  that 's  all.  He  likes  them 
to  be  neat " 

"What?" 

Phil  interpolates  "what"  and  "why"  at 
intervals  simply  to  gain  time  to  formulate 
another  question  before  the  matter  shall  drop. 

"Don't  keep  on  saying  'what',"  said  I. 

"Wha — beg  your  pardon?" 

"Nor  beg  your  pardon,  either.  It 's  a  habit 
you  've  got." 

"What?" 

"A  habit — there  you  go  again." 

"What's  a  habit?" 

"What  you've  got." 

"Why?" 

"Heaven  knows — I  don't!" 

"Tell  me  a  story,  Ruddy." 

"I  can't!  Not  here.  Hold  on;  I  will, 
though,  a  short  one."  And  I  began  in  a  low 
voice,  conscious  of  two  giggling  girls  opposite. 
"There  was  once  a  little  boy " 

"What?  I  can't  hear  you."  Phil  thrust  his 
face  closer  to  mine. 

"A  little  boy,"  I  resumed  hurriedly. 

"Why  can't  you  talk  louder?  Have  you  got 
a  sore  froat?" 

"Who  asked  a  tremendous  lot  of  questions." 

5 


66  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"How  m "  began  Phil,  but  I  anticipated 

him. 

"Seven  hundred  and  forty-nine,"  I  said 
quickly.  "I'll  tell  you  the  rest  another  time." 

Soon  after  I  heard  Phil,  who  insisted  on 
buying  the  tickets  with  coppers  borrowed  from 
me,  telling  the  conductor  that  we  were  going 
to  the  Zoo,  a  fact  of  which  he  informed  all 
and  sundry  that  came  within  range  of  his 
speaking  voice.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  he 
leaned  over  to  a  lady  with  a  piece  of  white 
work  in  her  hand,  and  asked  sociably,  "Is  it 
the  same  or  another  piece?" 

The  lady  started,  and  disclosed  the  features 
of  our  Spinster. 

"  Why,  it  is  the  little  boy  from  the  dentist's, 
isn't  it?"  she  asked  with  a  rather  eager  smile. 

"Yes,"  replied  Phil,  adding  hastily,  "but 
we  don't  never  kiss  ladies  on  cram  cars,  do  we 
Ruddy?  You  and  me  don't?" 

"Never!"  said  I  gravely,  and  Phil  ran  on 
sociably: 

"I've  still  got  that  tooth  out,"  displaying 
a  tiny  gap  at  the  corner  of  his  small  jaw. 

He  and  the  Spinster  chatted  amiably  for  a 
while,  and  then  the  latter  pointed  out  one  in 
a  row  of  houses  we  were  approaching,  as  her 
home.  It  bore  a  sign  on  the  door  which  set 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  67 

forth  "Miss  Ellis,  Pianoforte  Teacher,"  and 
Phil,  pointing  it  out,  inquired  its  meaning. 

"That,  my  dear,"  said  the  Spinster  rather 
complacently,  "is  my  occupation." 

"Oh,"  said  Phil!  "I  thought  it  was  a  brass 
plate.  It  looks  like  one  what  the  doctor  has 
on  his  gate." 

As  we  alighted  at  our  destination  Phil 
remarked  with  affectionate  pleasure: 

"Here  it  is,  in  just  the  same  old  place," 
which,  considering  it  was  less  than  a  fortnight 
since  our  last  visit,  was  not  very  remarkable. 
There  was  the  same  old  woman  with  her  basket 
waiting  on  the  curb;  it  seemed  as  though  the 
very  bags  of  peanuts  were  identical.  We 
purchased  largely  of  these,  and  then  came  the 
delight  of  the  turnstiles,  in  which  Phil  took 
his  place  with  supreme  satisfaction.  He  always 
firmly  resolves  on  going  twice  round  in  this 
device,  and  is  unfailingly  surprised  to  find 
himself,  with  apparently  no  volition  on  his  own 
part,  on  the  other  side.  First  we  visited  the 
brown  bear  in  his  pit.  It  is  the  ambition  of 
our  lives  to  see  bruin  climb  his  pole,  an  am- 
bition that  has  never  been  realized.  Another 
animal  in  which  Phil  is  profoundly  interested 
is  the  llama,  or  what  he  calls  the  "spitting 
camel." 


68  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"What's  it  say?"  he  asks,  pointing  to  the 
notice  board,  though  he  knows  perfectly  well. 

"Beware:  this  Animal  Spits,"  say  I  very 
solemnly. 

Phil  looks  delighted. 

"Say  it  again,"  he  urges. 

"But  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Yes — but  say  it  again,  please.  I  like 
to  hear  it." 

Having  done  so,  I  hear  him  repeating  softly: 

"Beware — this  animal  spits — this  animal 
spits — beware!" 

For  some  reason  it  fascinates  him,  and  as 
we  move  off  he  remarks: 

"It 's  a  very  rude  animal,  isn't  it,  Ruddy? 
But  p'r'aps  it  has  a  nasty  taste  in  its  mouf 
like  when  I  take  eucalyptus." 

At  the  monkey  house  we  pause,  to  watch 
the  weird  half -human  little  wretches  mouthing 
and  chattering,  and  springing  back  and  forth. 
Phil  feeds  them  liberally  with  nuts,  and  we 
pass  on.  The  huge  good-natured  elephant, 
laden  with  children,  is  perambulating  slowly 
about  the  grounds.  Phil  is  very  interested, 
but  declines  a  ride,  as  he  thinks  it  might  make 
him  "elephant-sick." 

Then  comes  the  real  business  of  the  day  — 
the  feeding  of  the  wild  beasts — and  long  before 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  69 

there  is  any  sign  of  the  keeper,  the  iron  rail 
in  front  of  the  cages  is  thronged  with  a  jostling 
crowd  of  children,  mothers,  fathers,  and  nurse- 
maids. Something  of  the  following  conversa- 
tion goes  on  with  more  or  less  acrimony: 
"Now,  Willie,  keep  close  up,  can't  yer?  Yer  '11 
lose  yer  plice,  stupid!" 

"  'Ere,  Georgie,  Mary,  Maggie,  keep  close  to 
me,  and  Tom — where  's  Tom?  'Ere,  Tom,  you 
keep  alongside  of  me  or  I  '11  skin  yer." 

"I  say,  Missus,  I  '11  trouble  you  not  to  let 
that  boy  push  in  like  that.  My  boy  was  there 
'fore  'e  was." 

"Ow!  Was  'e?  Reely!  I  s'pose  'e  'as  as 
much  right  to  see  the  animals  fed  as  your  boy." 

"Mine  was  there  first.  'Grace,  you  'ang 
on  to  the  rail  tight  an'  don't  let  nobody  push 
you  off.  Stick  up  for  yer  rights,  I  say." 

"Or'  right,  mumma.  You  git  out."  The 
two  boys  jostle  and  elbow  one  another  harm- 
lessly. "I  was  'ere  first." 

"You  wasn't!" 

"I  was." 

"You  He." 

"Look  'ere,  ma'am,  I  '11  box  that  boy's  ears, 
if  'e  so  much  as  lays  a  finger  on  my  boy.  Come 
'ere,  'Grace,  'ere  's  a  better  plice  lower  down. 
I  would  n't  lower  meself  standin*  by  that  scum, 


70  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

dear."  Aside,  with  a  shake,  to  Horace:  "You 
little  fool,  wotjer  let  'im  push  you  out  for?" 

Chorus  of  children:  "When  's  the  man  with 
the  meat  coming?  I  can't  see  'im.  I  can't 
see  nothing." 

"Oo!  I  'm  so  squeezed  'ere.  Can't  yer  let 
me  see  as  well  as  you?  Ma,  Tommy  's  standin' 
right  in  front  of  me.  Will  the  man  git  right 
inside  the  cages?" 

"Oo!  ain't  'e  fierce  though?"  and  so  on, 
and  so  on. 

Two  little  street  arabs  arrive,  breathless. 

First  Arab:  "Aw!  'taint  no  good!  Too 
many  bloomin'  kids.  Chuck  it,  an'  let 's  go  and 
snavel  some  peanuts  from  the  monkey's  cages." 

Second  Arab:  "We  '11  get  in.  Dodge  under 
this  fat  bloke's  arm." 

They  dodge,  worm,  and  wriggle  until,  in 
spite  of  protests,  they  secure  a  place  next  the 
railings. 

Chorus  of  women :  '  'Ere,  'oo  're  yer  pushin'  ? 
No,  yer  don't." 

"You  don't  push  by  me  that  easy.  'Old  on, 
Kitty  and  Johnny;  take  care  o*  little  Bobbie, 
Mabel.  Can  you  see  all  right  there,  Charlie? 
What!  Lost  yer  place?  Serve  yer  right  for 
gapin'  stupid!  'Ere,  come  in  front  o'  me,  the 
gentleman  won't  mind.  My  little  boy,  sir  — 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  71 

What?  You  Ve  as  much  right  to  see  as  'im? 
Well,  keep  it,  and  much  good  may  it  do  yer, 
but  if  you  was  lookin'  for  yer  brothers,  you  Ve 
made  a  mistake — the  monkey  'ouse  is  lower 
down"  (appreciative  titters).  "What  yer 
cryin'  for?  No,  you  little  fool,  o'  course  'e 
won't  put  'is  'ead  in  the  lion's  mouth.  This 
ain't  a  circus.  Stop  pushin'  Mary,  Alice.  Wait 
till  I  get  you  'ome,  my  girl,  jest  you  wait," 
and  so  on. 

Philip,  enthroned  on  my  shoulder,  had  his 
own  store  of  question  and  comment,  and  so 
we  whiled  away  some  time  until  the  keeper, 
with  his  barrow  laden  with  rather  grisly 
looking  red  joints,  appeared,  and  after  watch- 
ing the  great  cats  prowling,  and  sniffing  or 
snarling  over  their  meat,  we  threw  biscuits  to 
the  little  bears,  who  walked  about  on  their 
hind  legs  and  caught  our  offerings  cleverly  in 
mouths  or  paws,  and  whimpered  and  quarreled 
among  themselves  like  a  pack  of  greedy  children. 
It  was  while  waiting  for  the  city-bound  car  that 
we  saw  the  Elderly  Gentleman.  Philip  saw  him 
first,  and  accosted  him  in  a  friendly  way. 
He  turned  sharp  round,  and  fumbled  for  his 
spectacles,  and  having  adjusted  them,  surveyed 
my  young  friend  keenly  over  the  top  of  them. 

"Hello!"    said    Phil,    after   the   manner   of 


72  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

your  young  colonial,  without  a  shadow  of 
disrespect,  yet  without  a  shade  of  awe. 

"Hello,  young  man!  God  bless  my  soul! 
Is  it — is  it — now  where  have  I  seen  this  boy? 
Is  it — I  wonder — Jones'  boy?"  musingly. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Phil;  "it's  just  me. 
Don't  you  remember  me?  At  the  dentist's, 
you  know — having  a  tooth  out?" 

And  having  supplied  all  the  data  that  could 
be  reasonably  expected  of  him,  he  waited 
confidently. 

"God  bless  my  soul,  yes,"  cried  the  Elderly 
Gentleman,  "and  how  are  we,  young  sir?" 
He  shook  hands  briskly. 

"I  'm  quite  well,  thank  you.  This  is  my 
friend,  Ruddy.  He  was  at  the  dentist's,  too, 
that  day.  He  said  he  guessed  you  were  a 
peppery  old  chap." 

"Philip!"  I  cried.  "I  assure  you,  sir,"  to 
the  Elderly  Gentleman,  "our  young  friend  has 
a  lively  imagination" — which  was  an  injustice 
to  Phil,  his  report  having  been  quite  a  true  one. 

The  Elderly  Gentleman  laughed  very  heartily, 
however,  and  begged  me  not  to  apologize. 

"Children  and  fools,  you  know,"  he  said 
jocosely,  "and  I  put  it  to  you,  sir,  if  a  visit  to 
the  dentist  is  not  sufficient  license  for  any 
amount  of  bad  temper." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  73 

Having  cordially  agreed,  we  got  into  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  I  gave  him  my  name. 

"Not  a  son  of  Bob  Lingard?" 

"A  nephew,"  said  I. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  cried  he.  "Bob  was 
a  good  friend  of  mine  in  the  old  days.  My 
name  is  Wimple — William  Wimple." 

"Like  Wee  Willie  Winkie,"  observed  Phil 
to  himself.  Mr.  Wimple,  it  seems,  was  Wimple, 
K.C.,  the  Wimple  of  the  famous  case  of  Rex 
v.  Doherty,  which  he  carried  through  victo- 
riously in  the  face  of  strong  circumstantial 
evidence,  and  three  apparently  proved  alibis. 
That  was  long  before  my  time,  but  I,  a 
struggling  barrister,  was  glad  to  have  the  honor 
of  shaking  hands  with  the  eminent  lawyer, 
retired  some  years  now  and,  it  was  reputed, 
rather  wealthy.  He,  on  his  part,  hinted  vaguely 
at  "putting  things  in  my  way,"  and  finished 
up  by  an  indefinite  invitation  to  come  and 
visit  him  at  his  home  at  Tambourine  Bay, 
which  I  promised  to  do,  without  much  prospect, 
I  thought,  of  ever  doing  so.  But  Phil,  on 
his  general  principle  of  always  grasping  the 
bull  by  the  horns,  and  leaving  nothing  in 
doubt,  clinched  the  matter  in  his  own  masterly 
style,  there  and  then. 

"When  shall  we  come?"  he  asked. 


74  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Eh!"  said  Mr.  Wimple.  "What's  that, 
young  man?  Who  said  anything  about  your 
coming?" 

"Well,"  said  Phil,  rather  offended,  "I  saw 
you  first,  you  know." 

"Quite  right!  Quite  right!"  agreed  Mr. 
Wimple,  and  he  named  a  day  there  and  then, 
so  that  I  had  Philip  to  thank  for  any  chances 
that  might  be  coming  my  way.  He  shook 
hands  with  us  both. 

"Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Lingard,"  concluded 
our  old  "new"  friend,  "and  good  day  to  you, 
sir — good  day,  Humphrey." 

It  was  a  little  idiosyncrasy  on  his  part,  we 
found,  to  forget  names  and  bestow  others  of  his 
own,  and  no  amount  of  correction  ever  put  him 
right.  He  always  called  Philip  "Humphrey," 
and  beyond  once  remarking  to  me  that  he 
wondered  why  the  old  man  called  him  Humpty- 
Dumpty,  Philip  accepted  his  new  name  without 
any  demur. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  PHILIP  GOES  A-GADDING 

TT  was  Bmks'  "day  out,"  and  that  excellent 
creature  had  sought  and  obtained  per- 
mission to  take  Phil  with  her  in  search  of 
recreation.  The  next  day  I  had  a  full,  true, 
and  particular  account  of  this  "outing"  from 
Phil,  and  I  cannot  do  better  than  give  this 
account  in  his  own  words,  with  my  own  un- 
important interjections  as  a  running  com- 
mentary thereon.  Phil,  having  subsided  into 
the  depths  of  my  biggest  armchair,  with  both 
hands  in  his  breeches  pockets,  and  his  legs 
stuck  straight  out  in  front  of  him,  and  having 
tried  unsuccessfully  several  times  to  turn  heels 
over  head,  because  his  attitude  seemed  to 
invite  such  effort,  consented  at  last  to  "sit  up 
and  behave,"  and  tell  his  story. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "Binks  said,  'be  here  at 
twelve — twelve  sharp,  mind!'  What's  twelve 
sharp,  Ruddy?" 

"The  apex  of  time,"  said  I,  feeling  quite 
"sharp"  myself.  These  flashes  come  to  a 
fellow  at  times. 

"Well,  I  was  here,"  continued  Phil,  "on  the 

75 


76  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

abex — what  you  said,  you  know — and  would 
you  believe  it,  she  wasn't  even  dressed?'1 

"Ah,  Phil,"  said  I,  "your  experience  is 
beginning  early,  but  they  are  all  alike,  these 
fair  ladies.  But  how  do  you  know  that  she 
was  n't  dressed?" 

"  'Cos  I  looked  through  the  keyhole,"  he 
answered  simply. 

"Oh,  Phil— at  a  lady  in  dishabille?" 

"She  wasn't,  Ruddy — it  was  her  petticoat, 
and  on  her  top  part  she 

"Hush!  hush!  I  decline  to  hear  any  more. 
Let  the  mysteries  of  B inks'  toilet  be  sacred 
for  me.  What  happened  next?" 

"Well,  after  a'  nawful  time  she  came  out, 
smelling  so  nice,  Ruddy,  and  she  had  the  dearest 
little  rooster  in  her  hat,  an'  she  said,  '  You  're 
all  eyes,  an'  now  what  do  you  think  of  me?' 
an'  I  said,  '  You  smell  berry  nice,  but  you  Ve 
forgot  to  wash  the  flour  off  your  nose,  Binks,' 
and  she  said,  quite  cross-sounding,  that  I 
talked  too  much  an'  did  I  think  I  could  fasten 
up  the  back  of  her  blouse.  I  tried  and  tried, 
but  it  was  such  a  silly  blouse,  Ruddy,  with 
hundreds  of  buttons,  and  more  buttons  than 
buttonholes  at  the  top  and  more  buttonholes 
than  buttons  at  the  bottom,  so  at  last  she  said 
she  'd  manage  for  herself,  'cos  boys'  ringers 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  77 

were  all  thumbs,  but  I  looked  and  looked  at 
mine,  an'  they  're  just  the  same  as  anybody 
else's." 

Finally,  it  appeared,  they  got  off  and  boarded 
a  "cram  car,"  which,  in  view  of  the  over- 
crowding which  goes  on  in  our  cars,  is  the  well 
earned  if  unconsciously  just  name  which  Phil 
gives  them. 

"So  we  went  along,  an'  we  went  along," 
proceeded  Phil,  "an'  then  we  got  off  of  the 
cram  car,  an'  went  down  a  funny  little  street, 
with  houses  all  ezackly  the  same,  an'  then  we 
were  there." 

"Where?"  I  asked. 

"At  Aunt  'Liza's.  M'ria  lives  with  Aunt 
Liza,  and  Gram'ma,  an'  Pa,  but  Pa  was  in 
bed  'cos  he  has  to  work  all  night.  He  gets 
up  with  the  howls,  and  he  goes  to  bed  with 
the  howls.  Aunt  Liza  said  so,  but  he  must 
be  a  crybaby  to  be  howling  like  that  just  for 
getting  up  and  going  to  bed,  must  n't  he? 
Why,  I  'm  only  six,  an'  it 's  years  and  years 
and  years  since  I  cried  for  going  to  bed.  What 
are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Was  I  laughing?  I  didn't  mean  to. 
Go  on." 

Phil  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  but  proceeded. 

"Gram 'ma's  as  deaf  as  a  postman.     What 


78  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

makes  postmen  deaf?  Their  loud  whistles, 
I  'spect.  Still,  I  'd  love  a  postman  whistle, 
Ruddy.  Do  you  think  you  could  buy  me  one? 
I  'd  only  blow  very  softly  if  you  did." 

"Perhaps,  but  get  on  now." 

"Well,  Gram'ma — she  's  silly,  too,  you  know. 
She  had  a  kind  of  a  tin  crumpet-thing  in  her 
lap,  and  she  tried  to  blow  it  with  her  ears." 

"With  her  ears?" 

"Yes.  I  would  have  just  loved  to  blow  it. 
It  was  such  a  dear  little  crumpet,  an'  I  said  I  'd 
show  her  how,  but  Binks  said  not  to  touch  it. 
'cos  it  was  for  hearing,  not  for  blowing,  but, 
course  you  could  n't  hear  it,  if  nobody  blowed 
it,  could  you?  But  every  time  anybody  said 
a  word  Gram'ma  snatched  up  the  little  crumpet 
and  stuck  it  in  her  ears,  one  after  the  other,  and 
said:  'That's  it — mumble,  mumble,  mumble. 
You  would  n't  dare  say  it  to  my  face,  'cos  of 
my  money,  but  I  '11  take  care  of  that. ' ' 

"What  a  dear  old  lady!" 

"Not  very,"  admitted  Phil,  dispassionately; 
"when  we  first  got  there  she  said  to  Binks, 
1  Gadding  again,  Emma  Binks,  an'  does  that  child 
b'long  to  the  young  feller  you  do  for?'  An' 
Binks  said  just  like  this,  Ruddy — here  Phil 
elevated  his  small  nose  and  screwed  up  his  lips 
superciliously — 'the  gentleman  what  I  keeps 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  79 

house  for,  is  a  battledore.''  I  think  she  said 
battledore." 

"Bachelor,  perhaps,"  said  I,  trying  to  hide 
my  mirth  by  pulling  fiercely  at  my  pipe. 

"Yes,"  said  Phil,  "that  was  it,  an'  then 
Gram'ma  said  (an'  she  kind  of  snorted),  'More 
shame  for  him,  then,  keepin'  some  girl  out  of 
a  home.'  Why  don't  you  let  the  girl  go  home, 
if  she  wants  to,  Ruddy?" 

"She  won't  come  home,  Phil,  charm  I  ever 
so  wisely,"  said  I.  "But  go  on!" 

"Then  Gram'ma  said  to  me,  'Come  here, 
little  boy;  would  you  like  to  kiss  an  ugly  old 
woman?'  and  I  said,  'No,  thank  you,'  'cos  I 
would  n't,  you  know,  Ruddy,  and  she  asked 
me.  But  Binks  said,  'Mercy  sakes!'  an'  Aunt 
Liza  said,  'An'  Gram'ma's  that  touchy!'  And 
M'ria  said,  'Oh,  lor!'  and  began  to  laugh." 

"And  what  did  Gram'ma  say?" 

"She  said,  'Go  it!  Go  it!  Waitin'  till  I'm 
dead  an'  gone  to  laugh  over  my  poor  old  bones, 
an'  dance  on  my  grave,  too.  But  you  shan't 
get  my  money  in  a  hurry.  I  'm  sittin'  tight 
on  that."  So  I  went  up  to  her  an'  said,  'Do 
you  sit  on  it  all  the  time?  It  must  feel  very 
hard  sometimes,  does  n't  it?  An'  what  do  you 
do  when  you  go  to  bed?'  But  Binks  made 
me  come  away,  an'  said,  'Gram'ma  was  too 


8o  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

much  for  flesh  and  blood.'  What 's  flesh  and 
blood  mean?" 

"Well,  and  what  next?"  said  I  successfully 
evading  the  point. 

"Then  M'ria  took  Gram'ma  a  bowl  of  soup, 
an'  she  'set  it  all  down  poor  M'ria's  blue  dress, 
and  it  was  is.  8fd.  at  the  sales,  an'  worth  every 
penny  of  half-a-crown.  M'ria  cried,  an' 
Gram'ma  laughed  in  a  horrid  kind  of  way,  an' 
said,  'Dear  me,  what  a  sad  axibent.  What  a 
sad  axibent,  but  pride  must  have  a  fall,  my 
girl,'  but  it  was  n't  an  axibent  at  all.  She  did 
it  on  purpose,  an'  I  told  Binks,  an'  she  said, 
'Hush,  Sharp  eyes!'  An'  then  Binks  an'  Aunt 
Liza  begged  M'ria  to  put  on  another  dress, 
'cos  Binks  said  she  would  look  just  like  a  bell 
in  it,  an'  I  wanted  to  see  her  looking  like  a 
bell,  so  I  begged  her,  too,  so  she  did,  but  she 
did  n't  look  a  bit  like  a  bell,  after  all.  After 
that  we  all  had  a  smack." 

"A  what?" 

"A  smack;  you  know,  that 's  what  Binks  says; 
it  means  a  bit  of  bread  an'  cheese  an'  beer." 

"You  had  no  beer,  I  should  hope." 

"Yes,  I  did— hot  beer." 

"Hot  or  cold,"  said  I  indignantly,  "Binks 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  give  a 
child  beer." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  81 

"You've  often  given  me  some,  you  know  the 
kind  that  fizzles  up  at  the  back  of  your  nose." 

"Oh!  ah!  hop  beer.     That's  all  right." 

"I  said  hot  beer,"  said  Phil  with  dignity, 
"and  after  we'd  finished — I  had  the  last  bit 
of  cheese,  'cos  I  told  them  I  was  the  visitor — 
M'ria's  feller  came  in." 

"Ye  gods!    Maria's  what?" 

"Her  feller!  She  told  Binks  that  she'd 
been  '  going  with '  him  so  long  she  s'posed  she  'd 
'go  the  whole  way  to  church  this  time.'  She 
told  me  he  was  her  'feller." 

"Phil,  Phil,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  "what 
company  have  you  been  keeping?  Evil  com- 
munications   ' ' 

"Yes,  and  his  name's  H'alf,"  said  Phil 
innocently,  "and  she  an'  H'alf  were  going  for 
a  walk,  an'  M'ria  said  I  could  come,  but  H'alf 
said,  'Who  wants  a  gooseberry?'  and  I  said, 
'I  do,  please,'  an'  then  they  all  laughed,  an' 
Gram'ma  woke  up,  an'  said,  'Cackle!  Cackle! 
Cackle!'  but  nobody  gave  me  a  gooseberry 
after  all." 

Phil  drew  a  nail  and  a  piece  of  string  from  his 
pocket  and  remarked  in  a  detached  way:  "I 
did  n't  go  with  them  'cos  Binks  said  better  not, 
and  Aunt  Liza,  she  said,  'All  little  picshers  have 
long  ears,'  but  that 's  not  true,  'cos  I  've  seen 
6 


82  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

hundreds  of  picshers,  an'  none  of  them  have 
ears  at  all.     Have  yours?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "You  know 
it  is  said  that  walls  have  ears,  and  as  pictures 
hang  on  walls  they  might  possibly  -  But 

there  I  stopped,  ashamed  of  my  levity  in  the  face 
of  Phil's  innocence,  and  continued,  "Go  on!" 

"That's  all,"  said  Phil,  clinking  his  nail 
monotonously  against  the  fender  rail.  "Look! 
this  nail  is  a  fish  I  've  caught,  an' " 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  "what  happened  next?" 

"  Nothing  did  n't  happen  at  all.  We  just  sat 
and  sat  and  sat,  until  Binks  said  time  to  go 
home.  This  fish  pulls  like  anything." 

"Come,"  I  persisted.  "Something  else  must 
have  occurred." 

' '  What 's  'occurred '  mean  ? ' ' 

"Well,    for    instance,    poor    old    Granny - 
didn't  she  say  some  more  kind  things?" 

"She  wasn't  'a  poor  old'  at  all.  She  was  a 
horrid,  cross  old  skinned  something — Binks 
said  so."  He  returned  to  his  fishing,  hanging 
head  down  over  the  chair-arm. 

"Well,"  said  I  impatiently. 

"What?"  said  he,  jerking  at  his  line. 

"Tell  me  about  Gram'ma!" 

With  a  sigh  he  sat  up,  returning  the  nail 
and  string  to  his  pocket.  He  sat  silent  for  a 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  83 

moment  with  knit  brows.  Then,  "Something 
happened,"  he  said  slowly.  "Gram'ma  fell  off 
her  chair  on  to  the  stove." 

"Good  Heavens!"  I  said  "A  judgment. 
Then,  I  suppose,  there  was  a  great  commotion." 

"A  what?" 

"Commotion — a  fuss.  Binks  and  Aunt  Liza 
rushed,  I  suppose." 

"No,"  he  returned  coldly;  "they  didn't  do 
nothing.  They  went  on  talking,  only  Binks 
said,  'Serve  her  right/  an'  I  said  so  too,  and  we 
did  n't  take  a  bit  of  notice." 

"Monsters!"  said  I,  who  had  my  suspicions. 
"And  wasn't  poor  Gram'ma  burned?" 

"Just  a  little — at  the  edges,"  he  said.  "An' 
bime-by  M'ria  picked  her  up,  an*  put  her  in 
her  chair  again." 

"But  M'ria  was  out  with— with  H'alf?" 

For  a  moment  Phil  looked  a  bit  flurried. 

"Yes,  but  she — she  came  back  when  she 
heard  Gram'ma  screaming." 

"Phil!"  said  I,  in  a  warning  voice. 

"What!"  said  he,  brazening  it  out. 

"Look  me  in  the  eye,  Phil." 

He  did  so,  steadily  enough,  but  the  pink  began 
to  creep  up  and  deepen  in  his  round  cheeks. 

"You've  been  telling  fibs,  Phil,"  said  I 
gravely. 


84  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 


"Yes,"  he  confessed  in  a  small  voice,  "just 
that  part  about  Gram'ma  falling  on  the  stove." 
"Oh,  Phil!    Why  did  you  tell  me  fibs?" 
"You — you  made  me,  Ruddy,"  Phil's  voice 
shook  slightly.     "I  told  you  that  was  all,  but 
you  keeped  asking  and  asking  what  happened, 
what  never  happened  at   all,  and   so — so— 
he  gulped,  and  suddenly  a  big  tear  splashed  on 
to  his  little  brown  fist,  and  I,  recognizing  justice 
in  his  defense,  jumped  up  and  cried: 
"Let's  play  burning  houses,  Phil." 
"Let's,"  cried  Phil,  his  tears  banished  for 
that  occasion. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH   PHIL   MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND 

TDHILIP  has  found  a  new  friend.  I  am  not 
quite  happy  about  it.  I  feel  that  this 
means  a  rupture  in  our  pleasant  relationship, 
that  this  new  friend  will  thrust  in,  and  upset 
the  perfect  understanding  that  Phil  and  I 
have  enjoyed,  with  claims  that  will  clash 
with  my  claims  on  Phil's  time  and  attention, 
with  demands,  caprices,  and  exactions  innum- 
merable.  I  have  confided  my  fears  to  Philip, 
but  he  very  kindly  says,  No !  that  he  will  always 
like  me  best,  and  furthermore  he  points  out 
that,  owing  to  the  many  engagements  of  his 
new  friend,  there  will  be  still  many  hours 
which  he  proposes  to  devote  to  me.  Of  course 
it  will  be  gathered  that  this  new  friend  is  a 
woman,  a  slight  thing,  pretty  if  you  will,  quite 
amazingly  pretty  in  fact,  with  a  thick  cloud  of 
ruddy  hair,  and  shell-pink  ears,  and  unabashed 
blue  eyes.  Her  name  is  Olivia  Mary  Harland, 
and  her  age  is  six  years.  She  is  a  fellow- 
student  with  Philip  at  the  "Kindergarter,"  and 
is  possessed  of  some  real  or  fancied  superiority 
over  him,  inasmuch  as  she  is  up  to  "big  pig" 
while  he  is  still  struggling  with  "fat  cat." 

85 


86  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Why  this  should  constitute  a  claim  to  superior- 
ity I  know  not,  but  she  is  very  arrogant  indeed 
about  it,  and  Philip  himself  humbly  admits 
her  claim,  except  when  he  is  goaded  too  far, 
when  he  very  justly  says,  "A  cat  is  better  than 
a  pig,  because  you  can  never  take  a  pig  to  bed 
with  you." 

On  Saturday  afternoons  now,  she  and  Philip 
play  together  and  I  have  to  dig  my  garden,  and 
mow  my  pocket-handkerchief  lawn,  without 
my  young  friend's  help.  It  makes  me  very  sad. 
Philip  was  so  industrious  and  helpful.  Once, 
when  he  was  weeding,  he  pulled  up  all  my  young 
asters,  but  accidents  like  that  might  happen  to 
any  gardener,  and  I  never  told  him.  Meeting 
Phil  in  the  street,  I  confessed  my  loneliness  to 
him,  and  he  volunteered  to  bring  Olivia  Mary  to 
see  me.  I  was  not  very  jolly  about  it,  but  as  it 
seemed  he  would  n't  come  without  her,  I  con- 
sented. He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  the 
next  Saturday  they  both  turned  up.  I  was  first 
made  aware  of  their  approach  by  hearing  a  high- 
pitched,  incisive,  feminine  voice:  "I'm  going 
to  open  the  gate,  Phil.  Don't  you  do  it.  Yes, 
I  do  know  how.  Mother  says  it's  ladies  first." 

Then  Philip's  voice:  "You're  not  a  lady— 
you  're  just  a  little  girl.     I  want  to  open  the 
gate  my  own  self.    You  're  littler  'n  me." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  87 


I  'm  in  pig — but- 


It  was  the  first  I  had  heard  of  the  wretched 
porker,  but  it  was  not  to  be  the  last.  It  silenced 
Phil,  and  ended  the  squabble.  I  saw  a  little 
blue-sleeved  arm  slipped  through  the  rails. 
The  latch  clicked,  and  two  small  figures  came 
hurrying  up  the  path,  the  feminine  in  advance, 
a  slim,  graceful  figure  in  a  blue  frock,  with  an 
enormous  bow  of  blue  ribbon  tied  to  one  side 
of  a  mass  of  short  bright  hair.  She  wore  no 
hat,  had  elbow  sleeves,  and  a  square-cut  low 
neck,  and  long  legs,  with  open-work  white 
socks  and  white  shoes  to  inadequately  clothe 
them.  I  was  in  my  dining  room,  and  without 
any  formality  she  swept  in  upon  me,  Phil 
bringing  up  the  rear.  In  one  sweeping,  dis- 
dainful, comprehensive  glance  she  seemed  to 
me  to  find  out  the  weak  spots  in  my  room, 
which  Philip  and  I  had  ignored  or  never  noticed, 
and  I  was  suddenly  horribly  conscious  of  the 
worn  place  in  my  linoleum  which  Phil  and  I 
has  so  often  absently  tripped  over,  of  the 
sagging  of  one  lace  curtain  which  Phil  had  torn 
from  the  rings  when  hiding  one  day,  of  the 
confusion  of  pipes,  old  tobacco  tins  and  match 
boxes  and  dusty  odds  and  ends  on  the  mantel- 
shelf. That  is  the  worst  of  a  woman.  Phil 
and  I  had  been  under  no  delusion  concerning 


88  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

this  room  of  mine,  but  it  had  always  seemed 
to  us  a  jolly  sort  of  place,  cozy,  cheery,  sub- 
stantial, but  now  under  the  appraising  eye  of 
this  woman  it  became  small  and  dusty  and 
shabby,  and  I  was  hoping  she  had  not  noticed 
the  very  large  rent  in  the  tablecloth  which  was 
partially  concealed  by  a  particularly  hideous 
blue  and  green  vase,  a  gift  from  Philip.  All 
this  took  place  in  the  moment  it  took  for  her  to 
come  forward. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  I,  holding  out  my 
hand.  "You  are  Phil's  little  friend?" 

"I  'm  Olivia  Mary  Harland,"  she  returned  in 
clear,  high  tones.  "Sometimes  I  'm  his  friend 
and  sometimes  I  'm  not.  What 's  them?" 

An  imperious  small  finger  indicated  a  sheaf 
of  pipe-spills  in  a  cracked  vase. 

"Those,"  said  I,  "are  for  lighting  my  pipe." 

"I  made  them,"  put  in  Phil,  proudly.  "I  '11 
show  you  how  to  make  some  for  your  daddy." 

"My  father,"  observed  Olivia  Mary,  dis- 
tinctly and  chillingly,  "lights  his  pipes  with 
real  matches  out  of  a  silver  match  box." 

Phil  and  I  glanced  at  each  other,  feeling 
depressed.  Then  I  felt  a  comforting  small  hand 
in  mine,  and  heard  Phil's  voice  whispering, 
"Never  mind,  Ruddy;  I  '11  buy  you  a  silver 
match  box." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  89 

"Thank  you,  old  man,"  I  said,  much  cheered. 

Then  followed  a  depressed  silence,  Phil  and 
I  and  Olivia  Mary  gazing  solemnly  at  each 
other,  all  of  us  shy  and  self-conscious.  As 
usual,  the  woman's  self-possession  asserted  it- 
self first.  She  slipped  down  from  the  chair 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  one  slim  leg  swinging 
and  the  other  doubled  under  her. 

"We'd  better  be  going  now,  better  n't  we, 
Phil?"  she  said. 

"No,  no!"  I  said,  my  latent  hospitality 
aroused.  "If  you  're  going  so  soon,  what  was 
the  use  of  coming?" 

"Phil  made  me,"  she  answered  succinctly. 

"Oh!"  I  rejoined  weakly. 

"We'll  have  to  bemuse  her,  Ruddy,"  Phil 
whispered  audibly.  "I  said  if  she  came  we  'd 
bemuse  her,  an'  I  had  to  give  her  the  bit  of 
choc.  I  had  saved  for  you." 

I  looked  helpless.  Phil  and  I  could  amuse 
ourselves  in  a  thousand  ways,  but  would  this 
small  fine  lady  count  it  amusement  to  mow 
my  small  square  of  grass,  to  poke  about  under 
the  dusty  bushes  for  hen's  nests  we  never  found, 
to  rearrange  the  tools,  that  is,  one  rake,  one 
Dutch  hoe,  one  chipped  spade,  and  a  hammer, 
and  kindred  enjoyments  which  made  a  busy, 
happy  afternoon  for  Phil  and  me?  Then  I 


90  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

was  conscious  of  Phil  nodding  at  me,  his  chubby 
face  screwed  up,  and  his  smooth  forehead 
puckered  into  a  very  meaning  frown. 

"In  the  cupboard!"  he  breathed. 

"Eh?"  I  said,  mystified. 

"You  know ! "  nodding  still  more  mysteriously, 
over  my  head. 

"I  don't,  I'm  sure,"  for  Phil  was  very  direct 
in  his  methods  as  a  rule. 

"Pink  sugar,"  he  prompted,  and  a  light 
broke  in  on  me. 

"Oh,  ah,  yes!"  I  sprang  up,  and  going  to 
the  cupboard  produced  a  tin  of  sweet  biscuits, 
special  favorites  of  Phil's.  As  the  right-of-way 
to  a  child's  heart  lies  through  its  stomach,  and 
sugar  biscuits  level  all  differences,  we  were  soon 
all  sociability,  biscuit  crumbs,  and  pink  sugar. 

"Now,  what '11  we  do?"  asked  Phil,  when 
we  were  all  surfeited,  a  crumb  of  pink  sugar  on 
the  tip  of  his  small  nose  not  detracting  from 
the  beatitude  of  his  expression. 

"What?"  said  I,  conscious  of  four  very 
sticky  little  paws,  and  two  equally  sticky  little 
faces  pressing  close  to  me. 

"Let's  swing  in  the  hammock,"  suggested 
Phil. 

"Let's,"  said  I. 

Accordingly,  after  I  'd  taken  them  to  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  91 

bathroom  and  washed  hands  and  faces — rather 
a  pleasant  operation,  I  thought,  as  I  rubbed 
the  soft  pink,  damp  cheeks  with  a  clean  towel 
and  dried  dimpled  hands,  ringer  by  finger — 
we  repaired  to  the  back  porch.  We  all  tumbled 
into  the  old  hammock  with  much  laughter  and 
settling  down,  and  rather  a  wordy  wrangle 
between  Phil  and  Olivia  Mary  as  to  whose 
fault  it  was  they  both  kept  sliding  down  into  the 
middle  and  on  top  of  me,  a  discussion  in  which 
I  very  discreetly  took  no  part,  having  a  very 
good  idea  as  to  who  was  to  blame.  My  Lady 
cut  short  this  argument  with  a  very  decided : 

"I  'm  the  visitor — well,"  a  quaint  habit  she 
had  of  ending  her  sentences.  She  had  a  rather 
engaging  stammer,  too,  which  in  moments  of 
excitement  or  urgency  was  apt  to  trip  her  up, 
and  the  blood  would  fly  into  her  face  and  she 
would  stamp  her  small  foot  with  annoyance. 
We  swung  industriously  for  a  time,  but  after 
having  rescued  both  children  several  times, 
by  frantic  grabs,  from  pitching  out  head  first, 
first  on  one  side  and  then  the  other,  I  found  the 
thing  getting  on  my  nerves,  so  I  helped  them 
out  and  suggested  a  game.  Instantly  the  fun- 
sprites  danced  into  Phil's  bright  eyes. 

"  Hidy-go-seek,  and  don't  look  in  the  bath- 
room," he  cried  eagerly,  and  was  off.  So  we 


92  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

played  for  a  while,  but  Olivia  Mary  retired  so 
often  with  an  offended  air,  saying  "It  isn't 
fair,"  or  "I  won't  play  any  more,"  or  "I  'm 
not  speaking  to  you,"  that  Phil  and  I  became 
bewildered,  and  a  little  damped  in  spirits. 
We  were  not,  to  use  Phil's  expression,  "be- 
customed"  to  playing  that  way,  having  always 
played  with  a  degree  of  heartiness  and  good- 
fellowship.  I  suggested  a  rest,  and  we  all  sat 
down  to  grow  cool  again. 

"These  are  not  my  b-best  shoes,"  remarked 
Olivia  Mary.  (Phil  called  her  "Livy,"  but  to 
me  she  was  always  so  tremendous,  nothing 
but  her  full  title  seemed  to  do  her  justice.) 
She  regarded  her  slim  crossed  ankles  with 
complacency. 

"Aren't  they?"  said  I  coolly. 

"I  Ve  got  white  k-kid  one  for  S-Sunday  with 
free  straps,"  she  continued,  "an* — an'  s-s-silk 
s-socks." 

"That 's  nothing,"  said  I,  refusing  to  be  im- 
pressed, for  the  remembrance  of  Phil's  slighted 
pipe-lights  rankled,  and  I  felt  it  to  be  my  turn. 
She  looked  at  me,  amazed. 

"I  've  got  a  white  silk  frock  with  's-sertion 
let  in  for  S-Sunday." 

"I  know  a  little  girl,"  said  I  mendaciously, 
"who  wears  a  white  silk  frock  every  day." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  93 

"Not  to  school?"  she  breathed,  incredulous. 

I  was  enjoying  myself,  and  getting  some  of 
my  own  back. 

"Yes,  "I  nodded.     "All  the  time— always." 

"With  's-sertion  let  in— but?" 

"All  over  it,"  I  said  recklessly,  quite  ignorant 
as  to  what  she  referred,  and  elated  with  her 
evident  empressement  I  overreached  myself 
by  adding,  "and  it  has  beautiful  bows  and 
flounces  all  over  it,  too." 

"Then  that  little  girl  must  look  very  old- 
fashion.  They  are  not  worn  now,"  said  this 
amazing  child,  with  the  air  of  supercilious 
finality  and  contempt  with  which  the  fashionable 
dame  refuses  to  consider  last  season's  hat. 
I  was  crushed  and  silenced. 

Phil,  very  properly  having  grown  tired  of  this 
inane  conversation,  begged  for  a  story,  and  for 
the  first  time  I  saw  the  child  wake  up  in  Olivia 
Mary,  for  two  very  engaging  dimples  appeared 
in  her  pink  cheeks,  and  she  climbed  on  to  my 
knee  at  once.  Phil's  face  fell,  for  he  had  been 
preparing  to  take  his  usual  seat,  and  he  gazed 
at  the  interloper  very  hard.  Phil  is  a  gentleman, 
but  he  has  a  lively  sense  of  his  rights,  and  I  do 
not  know  what  might  have  happened  had  I  not 
very  hastily  made  room  for  him  also.  I  told 
them  stories  for  half  an  hour,  and  discovered 


94  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

in  this  strange,  hard  little  piece  of  porcelain 
femininity  an  unexpected  streak  of  the  softer 
attributes  of  her  sex.  For  having  hit  on  the 
story  of  David  and  Goliath,  a  favorite  with 
Phil,  and  been  at  pains  to  describe  with  much 
graphic  detail  the  timely  demise  of  the  giant,  a 
recital  which  always  gives  Phil  unholy  satisfac- 
tion, my  feminine  auditor  suddenly  startled  us 
both  by  bursting  into  roars  and  wails  of  grief, 
burying  her  pink  cheeks  against  my  shoulder. 
Phil,  much  taken  aback,  misunderstood  her 
entirely.  "Don't  cry,  Livy  dear,"  he  said 
consolingly.  "It  was  only  horrid  old  G'liath 
that  was  killed — he  did  n't  hurt  dear  little 
David  a  bit,  did  he,  Ruddy?  David  hit  him 
bang  on  the  temper  with  a  little  weeny  stone, 
and  the  great,  big,  ugly  old  giant  dropped 
down  killed — dead — you  tell  her,  Ruddy." 

But  Olivia  Mary  was  understood  to  gurgle 
between  her  sobs  that  "David  was  a  nasty 
cruel  little  boy"  -"and  the  p-p-poor  giant." 

Then  she  suddenly  dried  her  eyes  on  my 
coat  sleeve,  sat  up  with  a  sniff,  and  said,  "Tell 
another." 

I  was  sore  put  to  it  to  find  a  non-harrowing 
subject,  for  the  wells  of  her  sympathy  flowed 
afresh  very  readily,  but  even  in  this  commend- 
able softness  she  showed  a  queer  feminine 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  95 

perversity,  for  it  was  the  wolf  that  climbed 
down  the  chimney,  and  not  the  persecuted  pig 
that  got  her  sympathy,  while  the  pathos  of 
poor  abandoned  Joseph  in  the  pit,  over  which 
Phil  had  been  known  to  wink  his  bright  eyes 
very  hard,  left  her  cold,  while  she  wept  over 
the  slaughter  of  the  kid  in  the  blood  of  which 
the  gay  coat  had  been  dipped.  It  was  then, 
in  search  of  a  sufficiently  innocuous  and  un- 
moving  tale,  that  I  discovered  Olivia  Mary's 
raison  d'etre,  why  a  kind  Providence  had 
suffered  her  to  grow  and  thrive  and  come 
between  me  and  Phil,  and  inflict  herself  upon 
me  that  particular  afternoon — all  means 
working  to  an  end. 

For  having  concluded  the  story  of  the  loaves 
and  fishes,  and  calculated  to  Phil's  satisfaction 
the  amount  of  crumbs  left  over,  by  giving  him 
a  quite  unwarranted  estimate  of  the  size  of  the 
seven  baskets,  Olivia  Mary  remarked  rather 
disparagingly  and  quite  casually,  just  as  though 
it  were  not  the  most  precious  and  important 
utterance  that  had  fallen  from  her  remarkably 
pretty  mouth  since  she  was  born: 

"That 's  not  the  way  M-miss  Lynn  tells  it." 

"Miss  Lynn,"  I  cried,  and  clutched  her  to 
me  so  violently  that  she  cried  sharply: 

"Don't;  you'll  crush  my  frock." 


96  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"Miss  Lynn,"  I  repeated.  "What  do  you 
know  about  Miss  Lynn?" 

"I — she  's  my  Sunday  school  teacher.  Not 
my  properly  one — that 's  Miss  Davis.  Do  you 
you  know  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  thinking  how  deliciously 
demure  Millicent  must  look  trying  to  banish 
the  fun  sprites  from  her  brown  eyes  in  the 
midst  of  her  little  class. 

"Is  n't  she  sweet?"  in  quite  a  grown-up  tone. 

"She  is  indeed!" 

"I  love  her,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said  boldly. 

"She  looks  so  1-lovely  in  that  gray  frock 
an'  her  blue  hat." 

"I  like  her  in  white,"  I  said  dreamily,  "or 
pink,  I  think,  pale  pink,  and  her  big  hat  turned 
up  at  the  side  with  little  rosebud  things." 

"S-she  hasn't  g-got  a  hat  like  that." 

"She  has  indeed,"  I  said  positively.  "I 
saw  her  wearing  it.  Phil  will  corroborate  me." 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Phil  instantly,  and  on 
principle. 

"Won't  she  look  pretty  being  married  on 
Wednesday?"  continued  Olivia  Mary  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Married!"  I  gasped.  "On  Wednesday?" 
and  started  so  violently  that  I  nearly  unseated 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  97 

both  children,  who  clutched  at  me  wildly  and 
I  at  them. 

"You  did  it  on  purpose,"  said  Phil  reproach- 
fully, but  I  heeded  him  not. 

"Tell  me,  I  said  feebly  to  Olivia  Mary, 
"who  is  she  going  to  marry?" 

"Somebody  she  calls  D.  A.,"  she  said,  and 
I  groaned  inwardly.  The  hated  D.  A.  come 
to  light  at  last! 

"He's  the  gentleman  what  t-taps  the  desk 
for  the  hymns,"  she  explained,  adding  dis- 
paragingly, "He  is  n't  very  p-pretty,  you  know. 
Nearly  all  his  hair's  wore  off  an'  his  teeths 
s-stick  out  like  'at,"  clenching  a  set  of  pearls 
on  a  red  under-lip  by  way  of  illustration. 

My  dainty  Millicent  to  marry  a  monster  of 
this  type!  I  felt  hot  under  the  collar,  and 
my  little  tormentor,  looking  at  me  critically, 
remarked : 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  marry  her?" 

"Yes,"  I  confessed  abjectly. 

"Why  d-don't  you  then?  You're  not  very 
pretty  either,  but  you  're  n-nicer  than  him." 

"Thank  you,  I  said,  "but  it  looks  as  if 
Miss  Lynn  likes  him  better,  you  know." 

"I  don't  think  Miss  L-lynn  1-likes  him  at 
all." 

A  light — a  blessed  light — broke  in  upon  me, 

7 


98  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

and  in  my  huge  relief  I  hugged  Olivia  Mary  so 
hard  that  she  wriggled  off  my  knee,  and  re- 
settled her  hair  ribbon  with  dignity. 

"Philip,"  said  I  severely,  "you  really  ought 
to  go  to  Sunday  school.  If  your  mother  has 
not  the  time  to  take  you,  I  '11  take  you  along 
to-morrow." 

Considering  I  had  always  been  the  most 
strenuous  opponent  of  the  Sunday-school  idea, 
it  was  no  wonder  that  Phil  looked  surprised 
at  such  a  very  sudden  right-about-face  on  my 
part.  He  protested  loudly — he  would  not  go; 
his  father  had  promised  to  take  him  out  to 
La  Perouse,  to  see  the  Aborginals  and  the  Snake 
Charmer.  What  inducement  could  I  offer  in 
the  face  of  such  superior  attractions?  When 
the  children  were  leaving  I  whispered  to  Phil: 
"She's  very  nice,  Phil.  You  must  bring  her 
again  some  day — but  not  for  a  long  time." 

The  next  afternoon  I  strolled  along  toward 
the  Sunday  school,  patronized — literally,  for 
she  patronized  everything — by  Olivia  Mary. 
On  second  thoughts  I  was  glad  to  be  alone, 
for  Phil,  dear  fellow  as  he  is,  has  a  fatal  habit 
of  distracting  the  attention  of  fair  ladies  from 
myself.  I  Ve  taxed  him  with  it,  but  he  says 
he  can't  help  it — they  will  kiss  him — and  I 
believe  him,  but  the  fact  remains.  The  school 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  99 

was  being  dismissed  as  I  came  within  sight 
of  the  gates,  and  little  boys  and  girls  were 
pouring  forth  in  a  spreading  stream,  as  I  have 
seen  young  chicks  stream  out  of  the  doors  of 
an  incubator  at  feed  time.  Yes,  and  there  she 
was,  dressed  as  if,  sweet  soul,  she  knew  my 
preference,  and  I  liked  to  think  so,  in  the  pink 
frock  and  big  hat  with  the  rosebud  things. 
She  was  surrounded  by  little  girls,  tripping 
along  with  that  little  hoppety-skip  peculiar  to 
the  gait  of  little  girls,  and  never  to  little  boys, 
who  simply  run  blunderingly  like  young 
puppies.  Some  were  clinging  to  each  hand, 
at  which  I  felt  aggrieved,  as,  when,  with  a 
fine  air  of  nonchalance  I  stopped  and  raised 
my  hat,  she  had  not  a  hand  to  offer  me. 
The  following  conversation  ensued: 

I:     "Good  afternoon!" 

She:    "Good  afternoon!" 

I:     "Glorious  weather!" 

She:     "Isn't  it?"     (Pause.) 

I:     "This  your  little  flock?" 

She:    "Yes." 

I:     "Seen  our  mutual  friend  lately?" 

She:    "No!" 

I:     "He's  very  fit." 

She:     "Give  him  my  love,  will  you?" 

I:    "I  will." 


ioo  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

She:    "Good-by." 

I:     "Good-by." 

Then  I  passed  on,  only  wishing  I  had  the 
effrontery  to  follow  and  find  out  where  she 
lived.  Still,  I  had  seen  her,  had  had  converse 
with  her — something  on  which  to  chew  the  cud 
of  sweet  reflection.  And  through  the  remainder 
of  my  stroll,  and  all  that  evening,  as  I  sat, 
solitary,  smoking  on  the  veranda,  I  rehearsed 
our  conversation.  "Good  afternoon! — Good 
afternoon! — Glorious  weather! — Isn't  it?— 
This  your  little  flock? — Yes! — Seen  our  mutual 
friend  lately? — No! — He's  very  fit! — Give 
him  my  love,  will  you? — I  will. — Good-by! 
—Good-by!" 

Again  and  again  I  turned  these  words  over 
in  my  mind,  returning  to  them  as  a  boy  squeezes 
a  sucked  orange,  surprising  fresh  drops  of 
sweetness  out  of  its  flacid  rind,  with  every 
lingering  pressure,  until  gradually  I  eliminated 
my  own  inane  remarks,  and  the  conversation 
ran  thus  in  the  sweetest  of  voices:  "Good 
afternoon.  Is  n't  it?  Yes.  No.  Give  him  my 
love,  will  you?  Good-by!" 

Few  enough,  these  words,  but  it  is  surprising 
what  meaning  and  sweetness  can  be  read  into 
the  monosyllables  "Yes"  and  "No"  when 
delivered  from  fresh  red  lips,  with  a  little 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  101 

upward  curl  of  sweet  mockery  at  the  corners — 
and  the  way  she  said  that  word  "love,"  linger- 
ing deliciously  on  its  sweetness.  Bear  with  my 
sentimental  meandering.  I  was  in  love,  for  the 
first  time — and  with  Millicent  Lynn!  And 
then  suddenly  the  whole  episode  seemed  empty, 
bald,  and  meaningless,  most  unsatisfactory,  and 
the  bottom  dropped  out  of  my  content.  Why 
had  I  been  such  a  fool?  Why,  when  I  had  the 
chance,  had  I  not  pressed  my  advantage?  No 
doubt  she  resented  my  stopping  her  at  all,  or 
why  had  she  been  so  frigid  and  short?  "Yes" 
— "No" — almost  tantamount  to  saying  politely 
I  was  taking  a  liberty.  I  went  to  bed,  thor- 
oughly chilled  and  dissatisfied. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN   WHICH   WE   IMPROVE  OUR  ACQUAINTANCE 
WITH   THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN 

A  FEW  more  days  brought  round  our  appoint- 
**•  ment  to  call  on  the  Elderly  Gentleman, 
and  I  told  Phil  to  call  for  me  at  two-thirty. 
He  suggested  that  he  should  come  to  lunch 
"to  save  time,"  but  I  negatived  that,  as 
I  had  a  letter  to  write  before  going  out.  At 
one-thirty  however,  he  turned  up,  looking  very 
fetching  in  a  white  duck  suit,  heather-mixture 
stockings  and  brown  boots,  bare-kneed  and 
bare-headed,  his  thick  light  hair  neatly  brushed 
and  parted. 

"I'm  ready,"  he  announced.     "Come  on." 

"Well,  I'm  not!"  I  said,  adding  unmannerly, 
"Why  did  you  come  so  early?" 

"Mummy  said  to  run  along — I  bovered  too 
much  asting  about  the  time.  I  've  had  my  lunch 
though — egg  and  b'ren-butter.  What  d'  you 
have?" 

"I  don't  know — I  forget.  Run  into  the 
kitchen  now  and  help  Mrs.  Binks." 

Three  times  in  twenty  minutes  he  popped  his 
fair  head  in  at  the  door,  to  say  "I'm  here  still. 
Isn't  it  time  yet?" 

102 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  103 

Finally  he  got  me  off  half  an  hour  too  early, 
and  we  had  to  wait  for  the  Lane  Cove  Ferry, 
which  time  Phil  beguiled  by  counting  the  boards 
of  the  wharf,  and  the  masts  of  the  shipping,  and 
in  spelling  out  what  advertisements  met  his  eye. 
Then  I  gave  him  a  penny  for  a  penny-in-the- 
slot  machine,  and  to  his  immense  surprise  he 
received  back  a  pencil  with  a  rubber  end, 
instead  of  the  chocolate  he  expected. 

"How  did  the  choc'lit  turn  into  the  pencil?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  it  didn't.  There  was  no  chocolate 
in  that  machine." 

"But  I  always  get  chocs  from  it." 

"From  what?" 

"From  the — the  chemine.  What  are  you 
laughing  at?  You  said  it." 

Just  then,  with  puffing  and  splashing,  the 
little  snub-nosed  Lane  Cove  boat  sidled  along- 
side the  wharf,  and  we  went  on  board.  How 
the  blue  water  danced  and  sparkled  as  we  cut 
our  way  through  it,  and  churned  across  the 
broad  stretch  of  harbor,  turning  up  the  lovely 
estuary  with  its  steep  cliffy  banks,  thickly 
wooded  with  red-stemmed  feathery-foliaged  gum 
trees.  At  Tambourine  we  alighted,  and  Phil 
danced  along  beside  me,  his  hand  in  mine, 
or  ran  ahead,  calling  to  me  to  come  on,  he'd  be 


104  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

there  first.  So  we  mounted  the  picturesque 
slope  which  led  upward  from  the  tiny  jetty. 
Mr.  Wimple's  house  was  a  delightful  old- 
fashioned  place  in  the  midst  of  neat  lawns  and 
shrubberies.  Phil  rang  the  bell,  and  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  restraining  him  from  ringing  again 
before  an  elderly  woman  in  black  opened  the 
door  to  us. 

"Hello,"  he  said  sociably,  "is  your  father 
in? — but  he  must  be  'cos  he  said  to  come  to-day, 
didn't  he,  Ruddy?" 

I  handed  my  card  to  the  amused  but  slightly 
bewildered  maid,  and  we  were  shown  into  Mr. 
Wimple's  study,  where  that  gentleman  in 
smoking  cap  and  slippers  sat  reading.  He  shook 
hands  with  us  both.  "So  you've  brought  your 
nephew,"  he  said.  "Well,  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  you  both." 

"Philip  is  not  my  nephew,"  I  remarked, 
smiling,  "but  a  great  friend  of  mine  only." 

"I  see — I  see.  Well,  sit  down,  sir,  and 
you,  Humphrey,  take  that  chair." 

"  My  name  is  Philip,"  explained  Phil  patiently. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  And  how  are  you, 
Philip?"  ' 

"Quite  well,  thank  you.  I  saw  your  mother 
when  I  came  in.  Where  is  she  now?" 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  cried  Mr.  Wimple, 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  105 

startled.  "My  mother?  Dear  soul!  In  heaven 
these  twenty  years." 

Phil  looked  skeptical,  but  made  no  comment 
on  this,  merely  remarking:  "That's  a  funny 
cap  you've  got  on.  My  father  says  gentlemans 
don't  wear  hats  in  the  house,  but  I  'spect  it 
does  n't  matter  about  old  ones." 

We  had  a  long  chat  while  Phil  sat  swinging 
his  legs,  yawning  and  sighing.  His  host  had 
given  him  a  book,  but,  as  I  found  out  later,  had, 
absent-mindedly,  given  one  with  no  pictures. 
It  was,  therefore,  an  obvious  relief  when,  with 
a  preliminary  tap  at  the  door,  a  rosy  plump  old 
lady  in  black  silk  and  white  scarf  came  in 
with  a  tea  tray  in  her  hands. 

"Tea,  at  last!"  cried  Phil  with  a  relieved 
sigh.  "I  was  wondering  how  long." 

In  two  bounds  he  was  over  at  the  old  lady's 
side. 

"I'll  pass  the  sugar  and  hand  round  the  little 
cakes — oh!  there  aren't  any,"  he  said  after  a 
hasty  inspection. 

But  there  were  cakes  following,  and  hot  scones 
and  golden-brown  gingerbread — quite  a  feast, 
and  as  Phil  is  a  normal  boy,  with  a  boy's  normal 
appetite,  which  sometimes  seems  quite  abnormal, 
he  showed  his  delight  by  clapping  his  hands 
and  crying  "Hurray!"  and  the  old  lady  smiled. 


106  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

This  was  Mrs.  Brett,  Mr.  Wimple's  house- 
keeper; as  he  explained  when  he  introduced 
us,  in  a  loud  voice,  as  Mrs.  Brett  was  deaf. 

"Will  you  not  stay  and  pour  tea  for  us, 
Mrs.  Brett?"  asked  our  host,  adding,  "Mrs. 
Brett  has  been  in  this  house  many  years.  How 
long  is  it  you  have  been  at  'Warialda,'  Mrs. 
Brett?  " 

Mrs.  Brett  replied  with  a  beaming  smile 
and  a  nod: 

"Four  lumps,  of  course,  sir.     I  never  forget." 

1 '  Deaf,  poor  soul ! ' '  said  Mr.  Wimple.  ' '  Now, 
Humphrey,  draw  up  your  chair,  my  boy." 

"He's  forgot  again,  Ruddy,"  whispered  Phil 
to  me,  and  I  whispered  back  hurriedly: 

"Yes — yes — never  mind!" 

"And  what  does  the  young  gentleman  take?" 
asked  Mrs.  Brett,  and  we  all  looked  at  Phil. 

"Phil,"  said  I,  "Mrs.  Brett  is  speaking  to 
you." 

"Oh!"  said  Phil.  "What?— I  mean,  I  beg 
yf  pardon!" 

"I  said  what  will  the  young  gentleman  take? " 

"I  don't  know — where  is  he?"  said  Phil 
innocently,  and  when  things  had  been  explained 
he  said  he  took  the  "color  of  tea,"  and  might 
he  put  the  sugar  in  himself?  After  tea,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Mrs.  Brett,  Phil  went,  rather 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  107 

unwillingly,  to  wash  his  hands,  and  remained 
away  a  good  half -hour.  They  returned  to- 
gether, Phil's  pocket  bulging,  and  a  bunch  of 
gay  flowers,  very  tightly  arranged  and  with 
very  short  stalks,  in  his  hand. 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Wimple.  "Who's  been 
picking  my  flowers?" 

"One  of  your  mothers  told  me  I  could," 
said  Phil  rather  doubtfully.  "They're  for  poor 
little  Livy.  I  ast  her  to  come,  but  her  mother 
would  n't  let  her  come,"  for  which  I  was  thank- 
ful, as  I  had  known  nothing  of  it. 

"A  fine  little  fellow,  your  little  boy,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Brett  to  me. 

"Oh,  he's  not  my  boy,"  I  endeavored  to 
explain,  but  she  nodded  and  said  she  "could 
see  that — as  like  as  two  peas,  you  are,  and  that 
proud  of  his  daddy!" 

"His  nephew,  Mrs.  Brett,"  shouted  Mr. 
Wimple  to  her,  adding,  with  a  chuckle,  "Awk- 
ward mistakes  these  deaf  folks  make." 

I  did  n't  bother  to  explain,  reflecting,  after 
all,  that  it  was  rather  a  pleasant  thing  to  be 
thought  Phil's  father,  or  even  his  uncle.  We 
left  soon  after,  and  I  felt  very  well  content  with 
my  world.  Mr.  Wimple  had  definitely  promised 
me  a  helping  hand;  a  great  many  opportunities 
of  recommending  clients  came  in  his  way,  and 


io8  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

in  my  sanguine  mood  my  future  seemed  assured. 
In  natural  sequence  my  thoughts  flew  to 
Millicent  Lynn,  and  even  the  thought  of  the 
hated  initials  could  not  depress  me.  We  ran 
up  to  my  office  for  some  papers  I  wanted,  and 
though  it  is  quicker  for  me  to  take  the  stairs 
three  steps  at  a  bound  than  to  wait  for  the  lift, 
Phil  loves  the  lift  so  much  that  we  waited.  He 
rang  the  bell  in  a  continuous  peal  till  the  lift 
came  rushing  down,  and  the  lift-man,  who  is 
of  a  crabbed  disposition,  dashed  the  door  open 
fiercely,  all  agog  to  give  some  one  a  piece  of  his 
mind,  but  when  he  saw  Phil's  friendly  smile  and 
heard  his  cheerful  greeting,  he  swallowed  his 
wrath. 

"What  makes  it  go  up?"  said  Phil  to  him. 

"'Idrollick  pressure,"  said  the  man  glibly. 

"Oh,"  said  Phil,  "does  the  high-rollick 
pressure  make  it  come  down  too?" 

"I  s'pose  so — it's  the — er — water  power, 
you  see." 

"Who's  pulling  the  ropes  at  the  top?" 
asked  Phil. 

"Wot  ropes?" 

"To  make  us  go  up  to  the  high-rollick 
pressure." 

"Why,  it's  this  way,  y'see — the  water  does 
the  trick." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  109 

"Why?" 

"Well,  y'  see— that's  the  use  of  it." 

"How?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno,"  said  the  man  testily,  and 
stopped  the  lift  with  a  jerk  and  flung  the  door 
back. 

"How  many  times  a  day  do  you  go  up?" 
asked  Phil,  as  he  stepped  out. 

"Oh,  'undreds!" 

"You  are  lucky,  and  how  many " 

But  the  door  was  banged  to,  and  the  lift  was 
rising  to  the  floor  above  us. 

"Oh,"  said  Phil,  regretfully,  "I  did  want  to 
ask  him  how  many  peoples  went  in  his  lift. 
Why  do  they  call  it  a  lift,  Ruddy?" 

"Because  it  lifts  us  up,  I  suppose." 

"Daddy  calls  it  a  harder  name  than  that — 
a — a  evelator,  that's  it!  Why  does  he,  Ruddy 
— and  why  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  I,  and  at  that  moment 
the  boy  I  had  given  five  shillings  to,  to  play  at 
being  my  office  boy  for  the  afternoon,  met  me 
and  informed  me  that  a  lady  was  waiting  for 
me,  and  then  made  a  horrible  face  at  Phil.  A 
lady !  My  heart  leaped.  But  the  lady  who  rose 
from  one  of  my  office  chairs  to  greet  me  was 
small  and  elderly,  and  it  was  only  when  Phil 
ran  forward  in  his  friendly  way  that  I  recognized 


I  io  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

the  little  Spinster.  I  could  see  she  was  rather 
nervous,  so  I  told  Phil  to  run  out  and  talk  to  the 
office  boy,  on  the  landing. 

"No,  thank  you,  Ruddy.  I'd  rather  stay 
with  you  and  this  lady,"  he  said  composedly. 
"She's  my  friend  too." 

But  I  persuaded  him,  and  he  held  out  his 
little  bunch  of  rather  wilted  flowers  to  Miss  Ellis. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  the  Spinster, 
gratified.  "It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  give 
me  your  flowers." 

"Oh,  I'm  tired  of  carrying  them,"  said  Phil 
frankly.  "'Sides,  they're  pretty  nearly  dead. 
Livy'll  have  to  get  some  her  own  self." 

Miss  Ellis  then  launched  into  her  story.  It 
concerned  a  small  legacy  to  which  she  was 
entitled,  and  which  some  conscienceless  individ- 
ual was  trying  to  divert  into  his  own  pockets. 
She  was  fiercely  proud,  but  she  managed  to  let 
out  the  facts  of  her  life,  though  with  no  com- 
plaining attitude  of  mind.  She  was  a  music 
teacher  with,  she  said,  others  dependent  on 
her,  and  looking  at  her  neat,  severe  clothing 
I  felt  instinctively  that  "others"  were  a  drain 
on  her  slender  resources.  Then,  quite  casually, 
she  mentioned  that  it  had  been  Miss  Lynn 
who  had  advised  her  to  consult  me.  I  glowed. 
Miss  Lynn!  Dear  glorious  girl!  Though  she 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  in 

had  seemed  quite  unaware  of  my  existence, 
except  when  the  fact  of  it  was  thrust  upon  her 
notice,  she  had  proved  herself  not  so  oblivious 
after  all,  since  she  had  thought  of  me  and 
sent  me  a  "client,"  an  actual  client,  with 
the  tender  thought,  perhaps,  of  being  a  help  to 
me.  She  should  never  know  that  her  kind 
intention  was  defeated  because  I  could  not  find 
it  in  my  conscience  to  take  a  fee  from  this 
heroic  little  worker. 

"Miss  Lynn?"  I  said  eagerly.  "You  know 
her  well?" 

"Not  well — oh,  no.  But  she  is  taking  a  few 
finishing  lessons  from  me.  I  assure  you,  sir, 
that  at  one  time  in  Sydney,  Clarissa  Ellis  had  a 
large  connection  among  the  best  families,  but 
my  methods,  no  doubt,  have  grown  out-of- 
date,  but  they  are  sound,  sir,  sound,  and  Miss 
Lynn  had  heard  of  me  from  one  of  my  old 
pupils,  and  she — she  is  peculiarly  sympathetic, 
and  somehow  I  found  myself  telling  her  of  my 
difficulties,  and  she  advised  me  to  consult  you." 

"Quite  right,"  I  said  heartily.  "And  what 
day  does  Miss  Lynn  take  her  lesson?" 

"Wednesday,  at  three-thirty,"  she  answered. 
But  she  looked  naturally  very  much  surprised, 
and  I  realized  my  unprofessional  attitude,  and 
blushed.  I  endeavored,  unsuccessfully,  to  waive 


ii2  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

the  question  of  fees,  but  found  myself  falling 
foul  of  her  stiff-necked  pride,  and  had  to  listen 
to  a  rather  severe  homily  on  unprofessional 
quixotism  and  un thrift,  but  in  the  middle  of  it 
I  surprised  a  sudden  tear  on  the  little  lady's 
cheek.  And  at  this  moment  Phil  came  bouncing 
in.  He  stopped,  looked  at  Miss  Ellis,  and  then 
at  me  reproachfully. 

"Had  Ruddy  been  making  you  cry?"  he 
asked.  "  Never  you  mind,  Missis  Ellis,  I  '11  give 
you  my  sixpence  what  Ruddy's  going  to  give 
me  for  not  telling  he  loves  Miss  Lynn  bestest  of 
any  one  in  the  world.  Oo!  I've  told!  Does 
that  count,  Ruddy?  It  was  an  axibent." 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  and  you  could 
have  lit  a  candle  at  my  face  by  the  feel  of  it. 
Fool  that  I  had  been!  In  a  late  game  of 
"Who  you  love  best  in  the  world,"  a  game  Phil 
and  I  often  indulged  in  together,  I,  in  a  moment 
of  weakness,  had  allowed  him  to  surprise  my 
precious  secret,  and  then,  in  a  panic,  more 
fatuously  still,  had  bribed  him  to  secrecy. 
And  now  the  murder  was  out,  and  a  paralyzing 
silence  held  the  three  of  us.  Venturing  at  last 
to  glance  at  Miss  Ellis,  however,  I  saw  on  her 
face  a  look  of  understanding,  sympathy,  and 
demure  amusement,  which  told  me  there  had 
been  a  possible  romance  in  the  history  of  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  113 

faded  spinster.  And  then  she  did  a  very 
beautiful  thing,  which  made  me  her  friend  for 
life.  For,  holding  out  .her  hand,  she  said 
imperturbably : 

"You  may  perhaps  wish  a  little  further  talk 
with  me  on  this  matter.  If  so — any  Wednesday 
afternoon  you  will  find  me  at  home." 

I  stammered  out  some  fervent  thanks  and 
pressed  her  hand.  Then  Phil  offered  to  conduct 
her  to  the  lift,  and  assured  her,  on  her  saying 
she  was  nervous  and  preferred  the  stairs,  that 
she  "must  not  mind";  it  was  only  when  you 
"first  started  that  your  stomach  did  fall  down 
a  little." 

When  he  returned  I  snatched  him  up,  and 
tossed  him  into  the  air. 

"Oh,  Phil,"  I  cried,  "your  bold  methods 
have  won  for  me — L'audace,  L'audace,  toujours 
L'audace,  mon  ami/11 

"You  need  n't  be  calling  me  names,  Ruddy," 
said  Phil  in  an  offended  tone.  "Is  it  about 
the  sixpence?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN    WHICH    THE    SPINSTER    PLAYS    THE    PART    OF 
THE   GOOD   FAIRY 

T  SPENT  the  greater  part  of  the  next 
twenty-four  hours  trying  to  concoct  some 
remarkable  excuse,  on  the  strength  of  which 
I  might  ask  an  interview  with  Miss  Lynn. 
And  the  following  morning,  Fate  being  kind, 
I  met  the  girl  face  to  face  on  the  post-office 
steps.  So  surprised  was  I  that,  hastily  lifting 
my  hat,  I  had  passed  her  and  was  kicking 
myself  for  a  fool  before  I  had  well  realized 
my  chance  had  come — and  gone.  Looking 
back,  I  saw  her  buying  roses  from  one  of  the 
flower  sellers,  and  hurried  after  her. 

"Miss  Lynn,"  I  said,  "a  moment,"  and  she 
turned  to  me  with  that  smile  I  was  beginning 
to  know,  which,  charming  as  it  was,  was  so 
aggravatingly  like  the  kind  of  smile  she  might 
give  to  anybody. 

"Yes!"  she  said,  and  waited. 

"I  saw  your  friend,  Miss  Ellis,"  I  began. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said  brightly.  "I  believe 
she  did  think  of  asking  a  little  legal  advice  from 
some  one.  So  she  went  to  you?" 

114 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  115 

"Yes,"  I  said  quietly.  "It  was  kind  of 
you  to  think  of  me." 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  redden 
slightly.  She  had  evidently  not  meant  me  to 
know  of  her  move  in  the  business  at  all,  but 
she  punished  me  by  saying  airily: 

"Not  at  all!  Poor  little  Miss  Ellis  has  very 
little  money,  and  I  knew  that  beginners  like 
yourself  cannot  afford  to  be  such  gobbling 
sharks  over  fees  as  the  others." 

It  was  cruel — in  one  stroke  dispelling  my 
illusions  as  to  her  wish  to  help  me,  and  reveal- 
ing her  airy  contempt  as  to  my  pretensions  of 
press  of  business.  But  the  next  moment  she 
was  earnest  and  sweetly  serious  while  she  told 
me  of  Miss  Ellis'  struggle  to  support  herself 
and  an  elderly  brother,  half -hypochondriac,  half- 
hypocrite.  How  sweet  she  looked  standing 
there,  her  bright  face  above  the  bright  roses 
just  shadowed  with  seriousness,  as  background 
the  blaze  of  color  on  the  flower-heaped  stall  and 
the  huge  green-lined  umbrella  like  a  tent  above 
it,  and  she  in  her  white  frock  and  shady  hat  look- 
ing as  fresh  and  dewy  as  any  rose  of  the  morning. 

I  wanted  to  ask  her  to  come  to  Sargent's  for 
a  cup  of  morning  tea,  but  had  n't  the  courage, 
and  asked  her  if  I  might  put  her  in  her  tram 
instead. 


ii6  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  her  little  mocking  smile, 
"I'm  quite  capable  of  looking  after  myself. 
Good-by." 

And  with  a  nod  she  left  me.  After  a  moment 
I  followed  and  saw  her  get  into  a  Watson's  Bay 
car.  Feeling  quite  like  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  I 
set  about  proving  to  my  own  satisfaction  my 
deductions  that  she  was  bound  for  home; 
her  flowers,  her  parcels,  the  time  allowed  for 
getting  home  to  lunch,  and  so  on.  The  next 
Wednesday  I  took  Phil  with  me  and  set  out  to 
visit  Miss  Ellis,  ostensibly  on  business.  The 
Spinster  herself  opened  the  door  to  Phil's 
imperative  ring,  and  as  his  eye  was  still  glued 
to  the  keyhole,  both  got  something  of  a  surprise. 

We  entered  the  narrow  hall.  Somewhere 
within  we  could  hear  the  strains  of  the  piano, 
and  I  pictured  to  myself  Millicent  with  her 
white  ringers  sweeping  the  keys.  Excusing 
herself,  Miss  Ellis  invited  us  to  wait  for  a  few 
moments  in  a  room  on  the  right,  and  hurried 
away.  But  as  I  noticed  she  entered  a  room  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hall,  and  through  a  door- 
way within,  I  judged  that  the  piano  player  must 
pass  out  that  way.  I  immediately  became 
restive  lest  the  elusive  Millicent  might  meanly 
slip  away,  and  with  incredible  effrontery  I 
transferred  myself  and  Phil  to  the  opposite 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  117 

room;  a  kind  of  waiting  room  for  pupils,  I  judged 
it.  In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Ellis  and  Miss  Lynn 
came  in.  I  doggedly  ignored  Miss  Ellis'  air 
of  faint  surprise,  and  as  Phil  was  busy  counting 
the  chair  legs  he  said  nothing.  Miss  Lynn 
greeted  me  with  a  smiling  nod  and  Phil  with 
effusion.  He  submitted  to  her  kiss,  but  wiped 
it  off  immediately,  and  after  a  few  minutes' 
chat  she  said  she  must  go. 

"Oh,  don't  go,  Miller,"  said  Phil  sociably. 
"We'll  be  having  some  tea  soon,"  a  pure  as- 
sumption on  his  part,  but  like  most  of  his 
assumptions,  destined  to  become  fact.  Miss 
Ellis  glanced  at  her  pupil. 

"If,"  she  said  in  her  stiff  way,  "you  would 
stay  and  take  a  cup  of  tea,  Miss  Lynn,  I  should 
be  pleased." 

It  was  plain  this  was  an  invitation  for  the  first 
time,  that  Miss  Ellis'  fierce  pride  feared  a  possi- 
ble rebuff.  Millicent,  however,  was  not  of  that 
mettle,  and  with  a  charming  smile  she  replied: 

"Thank  you.  Indeed,  Miss  Ellis,  I  should 
love  a  cup  of  tea,  and  I  want  a  talk  with  Phil, 
too.  Phil,"  she  added,  "when  are  you  going 
to  write  me  another  letter?" 

"Oh,  some  day  to-morrow,"  answered  Phil 
easily.  "Did  you  like  that  one  I  writed 
before?" 


ii8  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"I  should  think  so.  I  have  it  still.  I  hope 
you  have  kept  mine." 

"No,"  he  said;  "old  letters  aren't  no  good 
to  me,  but  Ruddy  likes  them — Ruddy  has 
kept  it." 

"Phil,"  I  said  feebly,  "you— you  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  declared.  "Don't  you  re- 
member, Ruddy,  you  put  it  in  your  pocket?" 

And  I  had  fondly  dreamed  he  had  never 
noticed  my  action,  or  would,  at  least,  have 
forgotten  it,  since  he  had  made  no  comment 
thereon. 

"That  day,"  proceeded  Phil,  intent  on  estab- 
lishing a  case,  "you  said  Miller  was  the  cat's 
mother." 

A  paralyzed  silence  followed  this  which  I 
feebly  endeavored  to  break  up  by  saying  with 
rather  a  ghastly  laugh: 

"Children  have  such  extraordinary  imagina- 
tions." 

"Children  and  fools,"  remarked  Millicent 
maliciously. 

At  this  moment,  fortunately,  Miss  Ellis 
created  a  diversion  by  rising  to  get  tea,  and 
Phil  volunteering  to  help,  they  went  off  together. 

"What  a  delicious  kiddie,"  said  Miss  Lynn. 
"So  frank  and  straightforward." 


MY   FRIEND   PHIL  119 

11 A  fiend,"  I  groaned,  "willfully  perverting 
my  most  innocent  remarks  and  actions."  And 
then  I  added,  "You — you  don't  believe  about 
that  letter?" 

"Give  it  me,"  she  said  imperiously. 

"Never!"  I  said,  and  my  hand  went  to 
my  breast  pocket. 

She  laughed  a  low  laugh  of  complete  satis- 
faction at  the  success  of  her  ruse.  On  an 
impulse  I  took  out  the  letter,  and  handed  it  to 
her,  but  I  watched  it  jealously.  She  took  it, 
smiling,  but  as  we  heard  Miss  Ellis  and  Phil 
approaching  she  suddenly  handed  it  back  to 
me,  and  before  I  could  express  my  thanks  the 
other  two  entered. 

"There's  some  cake  and  some  br'e'n-butter," 
announced  Phil.  "A  piece  to  go  round  and 
one  piece  over — I've  counted  them — and  no- 
body must  n't  take  too  much  milk  'cos  the 
milkman  has  n't  been  yet,  so  tiresome  of  him, 
Miss  Ellis  thinks,  an'  if  no  one  wants  the  last 
slice  of  cake  I  can  have  it,  but  I  must  n't  ask 
for  it." 

At  this  moment  the  cakes  he  was  carrying  on 
a  perilously  slanted  plate,  slid,  stiffly  starched 
little  napkin  and  all,  on  to  the  floor.  Miss  Ellis 
looked  distinctly  annoyed,  but  I  secretly  sympa- 
thized with  Phil,  as  the  same  thing  had  happened 


120  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

to  me  in  fair  ladies'  drawing  rooms.  Phil  was 
not  much  disconcerted. 

"They've  all  fell  on  the  piece  of  rag,  'cept 
one,"  he  said  cheerfully,  and  took  out  his 
handkerchief  to  wipe  that  one,  and  looked  much 
surprised  when  Miss  Ellis  caught  it  from  his 
hand  indignantly.  We  all  had  tea,  and  then 
sugar  having  given  out  in  consequence  of  Phil 
sitting  next  to  Miss  Lynn,  with  the  sugar  basin 
between  them,  Miss  Ellis  rose  to  replenish 
the  bowl.  Miss  Lynn  sprang  up,  however, 
and  said  coaxingly: 

"Let  me  get  it,  Miss  Ellis,  do.  Come,  Phil, 
you  will  show  me  where  the  sugar  lives." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  Phil  took,  but  I 
said  complainingly : 

"It's  not  fair;  it's  my  turn  to  help  with 
the  tea." 

Phil's  little  face  fell,  but  he  is  the  soul  of 
honor,  and  he  said  with  regretful  heroism: 

"It  is  his  turn,  Miller." 

"But  he  does  n't  know  where  the  sugar  lives, 
and  I  want  you." 

"I  can't  help  it  if  she  chooses  me,  Ruddy," 
said  Phil  anxiously,  and  I,  assenting,  off  they 
went.  Soon  after,  Miss  Lynn  rose  to  go,  and  I 
at  once  followed  suit.  We  strolled  along  to  the 
tram  stop  in  company. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  121 

"Do  you  often  pay  an  afternoon  call  on 
Miss  Ellis?"  asked  the  girl,  and  dimpled  at 
me  mischievously. 

"N — no,"  I  said.  "I  had  some  business" 
— and  there  I  stopped  with  the  disconcerting 
consciousness  that  I  had  completely  forgotten 
the  alleged  reason  of  my  visit.  Miss  Lynn 
gave  a  little  insulting  laugh. 

"You  men  are  so  transparent,"  she  said, 
"and  so — so  truthful.'" 

"There  are  exceptions,"  I  said  stiffly,  accept- 
ing the  inference. 

"Oh,  yes,  perhaps — some,"  she  conceded. 

"  D.  A.  for  instance,"  I  proceeded  with  gloomy 
sarcasm. 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  she  returned.  "D.  A. 
—  a  dear  fellow." 

I  savagely  set  my  foot  upon  a  line  of  ants 
deploying  across  the  footpath,  and  just  then 
a  tram  swung  round  the  bend. 

"Now,  Phil,"  I  cried  briskly,  "here's  the  car. 
Look  alive!  I'll  take  your  music,  Miss  Lynn." 

"Thank  you,  no,"  she  said  laughing.  "I'll 
take  it  myself,  and  say  good -by." 

"Good-by?"  I  stammered.  "But— but— 
this  is  the  car  to  town." 

"Exactly — but  I  don't  want  the  car  to 
town,  if  you  don't  mind." 


122  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"But,"  I  persisted,  "you  can't  get  the 
Watson's  Bay  car  here." 

"Well — who  said  I  wanted  the  Watson's 
Bay  car?" 

"You  took  it  last  time,"  I  said  rather  feebly. 

"So  you  followed,"  she  laughed.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Lingard!" 

By  this  time  the  car  had  stopped,  and  Phil 
was  hopping  into  it,  so  I  had  perforce  to  follow, 
stung  by  her  mischievous  laughter.  But  I 
had  my  revenge.  For,  as  we  were  taking  our 
seats  she  called  out,  merrily  malicious: 

"Good-by,  Philip;  I'm  so  sorry  I'm  not 
going  back  to  town  with  you,  dear." 

I  leaned  forward,  taking  off  my  hat  again. 

"So  am  I,  indeed''  I  cried  fervently.  uGood- 
by!"  And  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her 
redden  furiously  as  she  bit  her  lip.  No  one 
in  the  car  knew  my  name  was  not  Philip. 

When  we  reached  home  I  said  to  Phil  re- 
proachfully : 

"You  shouldn't  have  told  about  the  letter, 
old  chap.  That's  not  cricket,  you  know." 

"But  you  did  take  it,  Ruddy,  you  know," 
he  said  accusingly. 

"Guilty!"  I  conceded.  "But— but  you 
don't  want  it  back,  do  you,  old  man?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "it  isn't  no  good  to  me. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  123 

You  can  have  it,  and  I  can  get  you  lots  an*  lots 
more  of  old  letters,  Ruddy.  There's  lots  of 
daddy's  and  mummy's  at  home,  an'  they  don't 
want  them — you  can  have  them  all  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,  awfully!"  I  replied  gratefully. 
"But  this  one  will  do  me  nicely,  if  you're  sure 
you  can  spare  it." 

"Course  I  can;  'sides,  Miller '11  write  me 
another  letter  whenever  I  want  it." 

"Lucky  dog!"  I  sighed  enviously. 

"What  dog?  Where?"  cried  Phil,  running 
to  the  door  with  every  sign  of  interest,  and 
casting  rather  a  reproachful  glance  at  me  as 
he  returned. 

"  Merely  a  figure  of  speech,  my  son,"  I  replied. 

"Oh,"  said  Phil.  "I  can  make  figures,  too, 
becept  the  three  will  come  wrong  way  round. 
Have  you  got  a  pain,  Ruddy?  You're  making 
such  a  face." 

"Right  here,  sonny,"  said  I  with  a  porten- 
tous sigh,  and  laid  my  hand  on  my  left-hand 
waistcoat. 

"My  pain  is  always  lower  down,"  said  Phil 
with  sympathetic  concern.  "You  should  take 
some  eupalyptus.  It's  very  nasty;  but  you 
mustn't  mind,  it'll  do  you  good." 

"I  will,  Philip,  I  will,"  I  said.  "And  now 
what  about  a  game  at  Wild  Indians?" 


124  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Instantly  the  fun  sprites  were  in  Phil's  gray 
eyes,  and  he  gave  the  howl  of  pure  inarticulate 
delight  with  which  the  small  boy  expresses 
his  feelings  best. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   WHICH    "THE   STARS   IN   THEIR   COURSES" 
FIGHT  FOR  ME 

'"PHE  gods  were  surely  on  my  side,  the 
"stars  in  their  courses"  fought  for  me, 
for  a  week  later,  entering  a  restaurant,  I  sat 
down,  purely  by  chance,  at  a  table  at  which 
sat  Millicent  and  a  tall  soldierly  looking  man 
whom  she  introduced  as  her  father.  We  entered 
into  conversation,  and  I  found  him  a  genial 
companion,  and  as  we  were  parting  he  did  the 
great  service  of  inviting  me  to  "look  in"  on 
him  and  his  daughter  any  Sunday  afternoon. 
It  appeared  they  lived  in  one  of  the  big  board- 
ing houses  in  Macquarie  Street,  right  under 
my  nose  as  it  were,  and  I,  all  the  time,  had 
been  imagining  my  divinity  as  being  located  at 
Watson's  Bay  or  the  wilds  of  Cooges.  I  looked 
at  her  reproachfully,  and  she  looked  back  at 
me  with  a  ripple  of  frank  amusement. 

' '  Well,  good-by , ' '  she  said  demurely.  "  We  11 
see  you  some  Sunday  then.  Bring  Phil  with 
you — and  don't  make  the  mistake  of  taking  the 
Watson's  Bay  car." 

The  next  day  I  saw  Phil,  and  extended  the 
125 


126  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

invitation  to  him.  He  was  aggravatingly  luke- 
warm about  the  whole  thing. 

"Let's  go  to  Manly  instead,"  he  suggested 
coaxingly.  "We'll  have  bosker  fun.  You  can 
bury  my  legs  in  the  sand." 

"Oh,  no,  Phil,"  I  said.  "Millicent  expects 
us,  you  know." 

"You  go  then,  Ruddy.     I  '11  play  with  Livy." 

But,  rightly  or  wrongly,  I  fancied  I  relied 
for  my  welcome  on  Phil's  presence,  and  I 
wheedled  him  into  a  promise  to  accompany  me. 

"There's  her  dog,  you  know,"  I  reminded 
him. 

Ye  gods!  What  a  Goth  to  be  tempted  by  the 
dog  and  ignore  the  paramount  claims  of  the 
mistress,  for  at  the  mention  of  the  animal  he 
was  won  over.  I  am  afraid  in  these  times  I 
was  not  an  inspiriting  companion  for  Phil, 
my  mind  running  a  good  deal  on  the  one  topic. 
For  instance,  falling  into  a  reverie  on  this 
occasion,  I  was  recalled  by  Phil  rather  plain- 
tively remarking:  "You've  got  that  pain 
again,  Ruddy?" 

"No,  Phil,"  I  replied;  "on  my  honor,  no." 

"You  look  sick,"  he  persisted. 

"Love  is  a  disease,  Phil,"  I  said.  "If  you 
loved — er — some  one  very  much,  what  would 
you  do  about  it?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  127 

"I'd  go  and  tell  her,"  answered  Phil,  dis- 
daining abstractions,  and  as  usual  his  advice 
was  so  clearly  not  to  be  gainsaid  that  I  wondered 
why  I  did  not  follow  it.  Yet  I  hesitated. 

"What  then?"  I  said  hollowly. 

"Then,"  he  replied,  "I'd  go  and  give  her  a 
big,  big  love,  and  free  kisses." 

"A  thousand  and  three,"  I  amended  with 
fervor,  thrilling  with  the  ecstasy  of  that  thought. 

"Goodness,  that's  a  lot!"  cried  Phil. 

"Not  one  too  many,"  I  said  positively. 

So  disgracefully  eager  was  I  that  the  very  next 
Sunday  "as  ever  was,"  I  presented  myself 
with  Phil  at  the  house  in  Macquarie  Street. 
We  were  shown  into  a  private  sitting  room, 
over  which  the  stiff  gentility  of  the  boarding 
house  had  left  its  trail,  but  various  pretty 
feminine  touches  (which  I  unhesitatingly 
ascribed  to  Millicent,  though  for  aught  I  knew 
they  might  have  been  the  visible  expression  of 
the  esthetic  yearnings  of  a  landlady's  daughter) 
did  their  best  to  discount  it. 

Here,  after  an  appreciable  interval  which 
Phil  occupied  in  counting  the  pictures  on  the 
wall,  we  were  joined  by  Mr.  Lynn.  He  was 
wearing  carpet  slippers,  on  which  Phil  made 
instant  and  admiring  comment,  being  violently 
enamored  of  a  dog's  head  worked  on  each 


128  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

of  them.  These  slippers,  in  conjunction  with  a 
haziness  about  the  eyes  and  a  general  abstrac- 
tion of  manner,  led  me  to  the  unwilling  con- 
clusion that  we  had  roused  Mr.  Lynn  from  his 
Sunday  afternoon  nap,  an  unpardonable  offense 
in  the  eyes  of  an  elderly  gentleman.  My 
discomfiture,  too,  was  not  decreased  by  our 
host  casually  remarking  that  Millicent  was  still 
at  "that  Sunday  school  folly,"  acting  as  a  kind 
of  locum  tenens  to  a  friend  who  had  taken 
a  holiday  for  the  purpose  of  getting  married, 
and  that  he,  meantime,  was  neglected.  That 
"Sunday  school  folly"!  Positively  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  it,  and  so  in  my  school- 
boyish  precipitancy  I  had  overreached  myself, 
and  should  probably  not  see  her  at  all,  for 
already  my  visit  was  approaching  the  limits 
allowed  for  first  calls.  In  calculating  how 
much  longer  in  decency  I  might  remain,  con- 
versation lagged,  and  Phil  sighed  and  yawned 
at  intervals,  extremely  bored  and  taking  no 
pains  to  hide  it.  At  last  in  desperation  I  rose. 

"Come,  Phil,"  I  said,  "I  think  we  must 
be  getting  along." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied;  "we  haven't  had 
tea  yet." 

With  Phil,  tea,  at  the  hour  set  apart  for  it, 
is  a  sacred  rite,  not  to  be  lightly  set  aside; 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  129 

an  afternoon  visit  without  tea,  then,  is  a 
ceremony  shorn  of  its  chief  observance,  and  so 
meaningless. 

'"Sides,"  he  continued,  "you  haven't  seen 
Miller  yet.  You  know,"  turning  to  our  host 
with  engaging  candor,  "Ruddy  didn't  come 
to  see  you  at  all.  He " 

"  Philip ! "  I  cried  in  an  awful  voice  of  warning. 

"It's  all  right,  Ruddy,"  he  answered  reassur- 
ingly, with  a  series  of  broad  winks  and  nods, 
intended  to  convey  that  I  might  certainly  rely 
on  his  discretion,  "  I  'm  not  going  to  tell  about  — 
you  know.1' 

Still  seeing  doubt  in  my  gaze,  he  tiptoed 
across  to  me,  and  with  elaborate  precaution 
putting  his  lips  close  to  my  ear,  hissed  audibly: 
"About  your  loving  Miller  best  of  everybody. 
Don't  you  listen"  (to  our  host) ;  "it's  a  secret." 

I  prayed  Mr.  Lynn  might  be  afflicted  with 
deafness. 

Phil  turned  again  to  him: 

"Ruddy  came  to  see  your  girl,"   he  said. 

"That's  what  they  all  do,"  chuckled  Mr. 
Lynn.  "The  old  man  is  of  very  little  account. 
But  that's  a  very  good  idea  of  the  boy's  about 
tea,  so  just  you  wait  awhile.  Milly  will  be 
in  soon." 

I   needed  no  pressing,   but  could   not  help 

9 


130  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

peopling  this  room  with  dozens  of  eager  men,  and 
wondered  gloomily  if  D.  A.  had  the  effrontery 
to  come  every  Sunday.  Soon  after,  Millicent 
came  in,  and,  fortunately,  unattended.  She 
greeted  me,  as  usual,  in  her  non-committally 
friendly  manner,  and  Phil  with  warmth.  Then 
tea  was  brought  in,  and  we  all  had  a  delightful 
talk,  and  I  quite  forgot  the  limits  of  my  call 
were  long  since  passed  till  Phil  said,  abruptly: 

"I'm  tired  of  being  here,  Ruddy;  let's  go 
home." 

"Oh,  Phil,  I  am  hurt!"  cried  Millicent. 
"Do  come  and  sit  on  the  couch  with  me,  and 
tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

Phil  went  unwillingly,  with  many  wriggles 
and  much  dragging  of  feet,  and  she  slipped  an 
arm  round  his  ungracious  neck,  and  cuddled  her 
cheek  down  on  to  his  thick  shock  of  blond  hair. 

"I'm  telling  Phil  he  should  go  to  Sunday 
school,"  I  remarked,  and  Phil  shot  an  uneasy 
glance  at  me. 

"No,  I  won't,"  he  said  hastily.  "I  know 
all  about  the  Bible." 

"Do  you  really,  Phil?"  cried  Millicent. 
"Then  tell  me.  What  do  you  know  about?" 

"I  know  about  Jophes  and  his  little  goat  of 
many  colors  that  died  of  the  blood  of  a  kid. 
What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  Ruddy  told  me  that . ' ' 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  131 

"Only  at  your  revised  version,  dear,"  said 
she  in  a  voice  that  trembled. 

"I  haven't  got  one  of  those,"  answered  Phil 
seriously,  as  though  it  were  a  new  stamp. 

"Well,  go  on.    What  else  about  Joseph?" 

"He  had  a  sheep  and  there  were  'leven  other 
sheep,  and  they  all  bowed  down  to  his  sheep  an' 
so  he — that's  all  I  know  about  Jophes — you're 
laughing." 

"  I  'm  not — I  'm  not — tell  me  some  more,  do." 

"I  don't  know  any  more,"  said  Phil,  and  sat 
kicking  the  leg  of  the  couch  while  Millicent 
exerted  all  her  powers  of  sweet  persuasion  in 
vain. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  to  Phil,  "if  your  mother 
would  lend  you  to  me  for  an  afternoon — and 
we  could  go  and  have  tea  somewhere." 

"And  Ruddy,  too,"  said  Phil. 

"Please!"  I  said  imploringly,  and  wanted 
to  hug  Phil. 

"Oh,  but  Ruddy" — how  pretty  it  sounded 
on  her  lips — "Ruddy  has  his  work  to  do." 

"Oh,  Ruddy  doesn't  do  any  work,"  cried 
my  friend.  "He  only  sits  in  his  ossif  and  talks 
to  people." 

We  both  laughed,  and  Phil,  conceiving  he  had 
said  something  funny  though  he  had  n't  intended 
to  be  humorous,  laughed  loudly  also,  and  said: 


132  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Wasn't  I  funny?" 

Phil  stuck  to  his  guns  stanchly,  to  my  secret 
delight  and  gratitude,  and  finally  Millicent 
gave  in,  which  I  think  the  dear  rogue  had  meant 
to  do  all  along. 

"Oh,  well,  bring  your  friend  too,"  she  cried 
in  pretended  pettishness,  "since  you  are  such 
inseparables." 

"No,  we're  not,"  Phil  denied. 

"Not  what?" 

"Not— that,"  said  Phil  shyly. 

"What's  that?"   asked   Millicent  teasingly. 

"What  you  said." 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"You  know." 

And  there  the  matter  stood.  Accordingly, 
the  next  afternoon  Phil  and  I  stood  under  the 
wishing  tree  in  the  Gardens,  waiting  for  Milli- 
cent, to  whom  we  extended  the  time-honored 
privilege  of  her  sex  of  being  half  an  hour  late 
and  no  questions  asked.  During  this  period 
of  waiting  I  had  to  decidedly  negative  Phil's 
disinterested  plan  for  amusing  Millicent,  which 
was  to  go  to  Foy's  and  travel  up  the  moving 
staircase,  a  fearful  pleasure  very  dear  to  him. 
We  had  a  pleasant  tea  on  the  broad  veranda  of 
the  Garden  Kiosk.  At  its  conclusion  the 
attendant  sprite  of  the  tea  tray  placed  the  little 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  133 

ticket,  folded  in  a  spirit  of  ostentatious  delicacy, 
beside  my  plate. 

"Mine,  please,"  said  Millicent,  holding  out 
an  imperious  hand. 

"Allow  me!  said"  I,  firmly  clinging  to 
the  ticket. 

"But  it  was  my  treat,"  she  said  mutinously. 
"And  you  have  no  right." 

"Don't  be  quallering,"  said  Phil  reprovingly; 
"let  Miller  pay  if  she  wants'  to,  Ruddy,  and 
you'll  have  your  pennies  left  for  some  chocs." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  But  I  had  one 
moment  of  exquisite  revenge  when,  on  Millicent 
turning  to  come  back  to  our  table,  the  girl  at 
the  pay  desk  cried: 

"Your  husband  has  gone  on,  madam,  with 
the  little  boy." 

I  had  sauntered  down  the  steps,  and 
affected  to  be  quite  deaf,  but  when  Millicent 
joined  me  there  was  still  a  trace  of  burning  rose- 
color  in  her  cheek,  and  after  walking  on  in 
complete  silence  for  a  time  she  spoke  with 
sudden  vehemence: 

"That's  a  horrid  place.  I'll  never  go  to 
the  Kiosk  again." 

"Why?"  said  I  innocently.  "I  thought  it  a 
very  nice  place,  and  such  jolly  girls." 

For  a  time  the  sun  of  prosperity  shone  for  me. 


134  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

The  offers  of  assistance  from  Mr.  Wimple  had 
materialized,  and  a  small  flow  of  business 
began  to  come  my  way.  Added  to  that,  I  quite 
frequently  met  Miss  Lynn,  and  I  persuaded 
myself  she  was  kinder  than  of  yore.  The 
detested  D.  A.  never  crossed  my  path,  luckily 
for  us  both.  I  felt  sure  we  should  have 
disagreed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH  PHIL  AND   I  HAVE  A  NIGHT   OUT 

"TDHIL,"  said  I  one  day  when  Phil,  having 
dropped  in  sociably  about  lunch  time, 
had  consumed  a  light  luncheon  of  three  sardines, 
a  slice  of  bread  and  honey,  the  end  of  a  cold 
plum  duff,  half  a  banana,  and  a  pickled  cucum- 
ber, "Phil,  I  have  a  brand-new  proposition  for 
you."  Phil  dropped  the  banana  skin  which  he 
had  been  scraping  with  his  teeth,  and  in  a  bound 
was  at  my  side,  his  eyes  dancing. 

"Show  it  to  me,"  he  demanded.  "Does  it 
live  in  a  cage?" 

"Tut,  tut,  my  son,  you  misunderstand  me. 
I  mean  a  plan,  a  project,  an  idea." 

"What's  a  I-dear?" 

"A  happy  thought — a  suggestion." 

"I  know  what  a  'gestion  is.  It's  a  pain  you 
get  here,"  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  small  chest, 
"when  you've  had  too  much  dinner."  (I 
wondered  if  he  spoke  feelingly.) 

"Well,  hardly,"  said  I.  "That's  more  in  the 
nature  of  a  reflection." 

"What's  a  reflection." 

"A  sadder  and  a  wiser  thought,"  I  replied. 
135 


136  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Phil  looked  at  me  sadly,  and  heaved  a  patient 
sigh. 

"Sometimes  you  talk  so  silly,  Ruddy,"  he 
said  wearily.  "And  now  please  show  me  what 
you  said  you'd  got  for  me." 

"Well,"  said  I,  feeling  a  little  foolish,  "it's- 
er — nothing  I've — er — exactly  got  for  you. 
It's  only,  as  I  said  a — a — plan — a — dash  it 
all!  Look  here,  have  you  ever  been  to  a 
circus?"  "A  circus?"  Phil's  eyes  grew  a  size 
larger.  "Where  there's  lions  an'  tigers  an' — 
an' — ephalants?  " 

"Yes." 

"An*  monkeys  in  cages?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  ladies  dancing  on  one  leg  on  horses 
with  their  dresses  all  blown  out?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  where  you  give  the  clown  your  hat, 
Ruddy,  an'  he  breaks  a  lot  of  eggs  into  it  an' 
then  jumps  on  it?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  But  I 
mean  a  circus." 

"No,  I've  never  been,"  said  Phil,  "but  I'd 
love  it!  I'd  love  it!  I'd  love  it!" 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  however," 
I  said. 

"I  just  know  about  that  'cos  of  seeing  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  137 

pictures  on  the  fences  an*  things,  but  I  want  to 
go.  Oh!  do  take  me,  Ruddy,  please!  I'd 
rather  see  a  circus  than  have  that — that — 
opposition  you  promised  me  first." 

"Well,  perhaps,  if  your  mother  has  no 
objection " 

"She  hasn't — not  one,"  said  Phil  positively. 

"Not  one  what?"  said  I. 

"Not  one — one — what  you  said  just  now." 

"Objection.  Now,  how  do  you  know  she 
hasn't?" 

"Cos  I've  never  seen  one  in  our  house  any 
time  ever,  an*  I'd  be  sure  to  see  it  if  it  was 
there.  I  see  everything.  Beenie  says  I  must 
have  eyes  in  the  back  of  my  head.  Have  I?" 

He  turned  his  little  blond  poll  for  my  inspec- 
tion. "I  don't  see  any,"  said  I,  "but  run 
along  home  now  and  ask  your  mother,  and  I  '11 
look  in  for  you  about  seven  this  evening." 

He  skipped  away  to  the  door,  but  came 
back  again  to  say  solemnly: 

"You're  my  bestest  friend,  Ruddy.  You're 
not  like  a  friend.  You're  nearly  as  good  as 
God,  I  think."  Then  approaching  his  lips  to 
my  ear  he  whispered,  "I  have  to  only  say 
nearly,  'cos  He  hears  everything — Beenie  says 
so."  And  with  that  he  trotted  off. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  telephone   bell 


138  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

rang  and  I  went  to  it.  Phil's  brisk  little  voice 
hailed  me. 

"Hello,  Ruddy!" 

"Hello,  Buster!" 

"I'm  still  thinking  about  that  circus." 

"Yes,  that 's  all  right ;  but  I  'm  busy  now." 

"Livy'shere." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes,  an'  she  wants  awf'ly  much  to  come 
to  the  circus,  too." 

"Oh,  does  she?  But  perhaps  Livy's 
mother " 

"No!  she  wouldn't,  not  a  bit,"  Phil  antici- 
pated me.  "She  said  if  Livy  won't  be  a  bother 
she  can  go  an'  welcome.  Will  she  be  a  bother? 
Livy's  mother's  here,  too,  you  know." 

"Well,  you  see,  old  man,  I  love  her  very 
dearly,  as  you  know,"  I  said  with  gentle  irony, 
"but,  between  us,  I  find  her  a  bit  of  a  handful." 

"Livy's  mother,  you  mean." 

"No!    No!    No!" 

"Well,  Livy's  waiting,  an'  she  says " 

Phil's  further  remarks  were  cut  short  ab- 
ruptly, and  I  guessed  what  had  happened.  The 
despotic  Olivia  Mary  had  come  on  the  scene, 
and  there  was  now  a  free  fight  for  possession  of 
the  telephone.  Even  at  this  distance  I  could 
catch  faint,  far  echoes  of  the  fray. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  139 

"Stop  that!"  I  said  so  loudly  and  impera- 
tively that  even  over  the  wire  I  imagined  I  could 
feel  both  children  jump.  Then  Olivia  Mary's 
high-pitched  little  tones  floated  over  the  wire. 

"Hello,  Ruddy!  I  can  come.  You  an'  me '11 
have  f-fun." 

"The  lions  roar  very  loudly,"  I  said  mean- 
ingly. 

"B-but  they  can't  g-get  out  of  their  c-cages. 
Shall  I  wear  my  b-brown  velvet  coat  an' — an' 
my  white  hat?" 

"I  wouldn't!"  I  said  discouragingly,  feeling 
rather  a  churl,  but  sincerely  not  wanting  Olivia 
Mary. 

"An' — an'  my  white  shoes  with  b-buckles?" 

"The  monkeys '11  get  them,"  I  said. 

"I'll  hide  them  under  the  seat — my  feets, 
I  mean." 

"I  perceive,  then,  that  hints  are  quite  wasted 
on  you,  madam,"  I  said  with  elaborate  irony. 

"Yes,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "W-what  time 
will  you  b-bring  the  car?" 

(Olivia  Mary  is  a  very  grand  little  person, 
and  does  most  of  her  traveling  in  motor-cars, 
of  which  luxuries  she  owns  two,  she  will  tell  you.) 

"In  that  case,  all  I  can  say,"  I  proceeded, 
"is  that  I  shall  be  charmed  to  escort  you  to 
the  arena." 


140  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

To  my  surprise  she  exhibited  temper.  I  felt 
sure  that,  could  I  see  her,  she  was  stamping 
her  foot. 

"I  won't!  I  won't!  I  won't!"  she  said. 
"I  don't  want  to  go  there.  I  want  to  go  to 
the  circus  w-with  you  and  Ph-Phil." 

"Seven,  then,  and  be  sure  you're  ready,"  I 
said,  and  rang  off.  At  seven  then,  I  rang  the 
bell  at  Phil's  hall  door.  There  was  an  instan- 
taneous scrambling  rush  inside,  the  excitable 
tones  of  Olivia  Mary  mingled  with  Phil's  more 
deliberate  tones,  and  over  it  the  voice  of  Beenie, 
vainly  urging  good  behavior,  and  quietness.  In 
another  moment  both  children  were  hanging 
on  to  my  legs  or  coattails,  both  talking  at  once, 
questioning,  clamoring,  shouting.  With  great 
difficulty  Beenie  induced  them  both  to  go  to  the 
bathroom  to  have  hands  and  faces  sponged, 
and  lingered  a  moment  to  say  to  me :  "Oh,  them 
children!  Scarce  a  bite  of  tea  would  they  take 
for  running  to  the  window  to  see  if  you  was 
coming.  And  as  for  that  Oliverer — the  times 
and  again  I  've  had  to  tie  her  hair-bow,  and  all 
the  time  passing  the  most  disparishing  remarks 
about  the  way  her  own  nurse  ties  it.  Well, 
I'm  thankful  to  goodness  that  mine's  a  boy- 
child,  and  does  n't  need  no  bows  and  ribbons 
on  his  hair." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  141 

And  with  that,  in  answer  to  repeated  calls 
of  "Beenie!"  from  the  bathroom,  she  departed. 
She  brought  the  children  back  with  shining 
faces  and  brushed  hair,  buttoned  Phil  into  his 
little  greatcoat,  and  put  on  Olivia  Mary's 
velvet  coat  and  white  hat  with  ribbon  bows. 
Olivia  Mary,  seeing  my  eyes  on  her  white  shoes, 
flushed  a  little  guiltily. 

"Monkeys!"  was  all  I  said. 

"I  can  hide  them  under  my  frock,"  she  said 
instantly,  and  then  deftly,  to  change  the  subject, 
she  added:  "Have  you  b-brought  a  taxi,  or 
are  we  going  in  your  car?" 

"  My  car,"  said  I  firmly,  "my  trusty  tram  car." 

"Oh,  a  tram  car!"  she  said  superciliously. 

"I  love  cram  cars,"  said  Phil  generously. 
"You  can  pick  up  hundreds  of  tickets  in  them." 

"D-d-dirty  people  have  these  t-tickets,"  said 
Olivia  Mary. 

"They're  not  all  dirty,"  objected  Phil. 
"And  'sides " 

"Here,  come  along,  you  two,"  said  I. 

"Good-by,  Beenie,"  said  Phil,  lifting  a  beam- 
ing face  to  be  kissed. 

"Good-by,  Phil,"  said  Beenie,  "an'  be'ave 
like  a  little  gentleman,  even  if  those  around  you 
don't"  (which  seemed  a  distinct  reflection  on 
me). 


142  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Good-by,  Beenie,"  said  Olivia  Mary  care- 
lessly. "Do  I  look  p-pretty?" 

"As  a  picture,"  confided  Beenie,  and  in  an 
aside  to  me,  "and  well  she  knows  it,"  adding 
to  the  little  girl  improvingly,  "  'Andsome  is 
what  'andsome  does,  Oliverer,  you  know,"  a 
remark  which  was  construed  by  that  young 
person  into  meaning  that  a  hansom  had  come  for 
us.  She  danced  out  on  to  the  steps  to  see  for 
herself,  and  danced  back  again  to  say  accusingly: 

"Oh,  you  big  story,  Beenie!" 

"Did  you  ever  hear?"  cried  the  scandalized 
Beenie.  "Well,  give  me  a  boy-child ' 

The  closing  of  the  hall  door,  as  both  children 
dragged  me  bodily  through  it,  cut  short  further 
reflections.  I  walked  to  the  tram,  a  child  on 
either  hand,  both  chattering  on  entirely  different 
subjects,  only  interrupting  themselves,  now  and 
then,  to  contradict  or  challenge  a  statement  of 
the  other.  So  we  went  through  the  pleasant, 
lamplit  dusk,  and  only  once  had  threat enings 
of  friction,  when  in  the  car  both  children  wished 
to  be  the  one  to  take  the  tickets.  I  decided  in 
favor  of  the  lady,  and  Phil  sat  back  with 
flushed  face,  murmuring  under  his  breath: 

"Ladies  first  again,  I  s'pose!  God  didn't 
make  ladies  first,  anyhow." 

We  arrived  at  last  at  the  circus,  which  covered 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  143 

a  good  space  of  ground,  with  an  immense  circular 
marquee,  and  various  outbuildings.  The  place 
was  garish  with  flaring  naphtha  torches,  and  a 
brass  band  was  blaring  away  manfully  and  very 
brassily. 

"Is  it  the  S-s-salvation  Army?"  asked  Olivia 
Mary,  and  Phil  replied:  "The  Salvation  Army 
has  red  shirts,  and  these  men  haven't  got  no 
shirts,  so  they  can't  be  it." 

We  walked  along  a  covered  way  and  then  the 
first  familiar  whiff  of  the  circus  smote  us.  Who 
does  not  know  this  distinct  and  peculiar  min- 
gling of  odors,  and  recognize  it  instantly  for  what 
it  is,  has  missed  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  child- 
hood. Even  now  the  thrill  clutches  me  by  the 
throat,  and  I  feel  a  distinct  desire  to  hurry  into 
the  midst  of  those  varied  odors  of  dampened 
sawdust,  oranges  and  peanuts,  rubber  and 
escaping  gas,  and  the  rank  smell  of  wild  beasts. 
And  just  as  we  gave  up  our  tickets  at  the  door 
there  burst  forth  a  pandemonium  of  sonorous 
roars  and  shrill  yelpings,  at  the  sound  of  which 
Olivia  Mary's  little  pink  fingers  burrowed  deeper 
into  mine,  and  even  Phil's  sturdy  fist  tightened 
its  hold  a  little.  Soon  we  were  walking  about 
among  the  stoutly  barred  cages  in  the  menagerie, 
within  which  lowered  the  sullen  brows  of  a  lion, 
or  the  glittering  eyes  of  a  tiger  or  leopard 


144  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

glared  steadily  at  the  gazing  people.  In  one 
cage  was  the  famous  "fighting"  lion,  a  feature 
of  the  show,  which  had  been  taught  to  box. 
When  Phil  had  spelled  out  the  inscription  he 
walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  this  cage  for 
some  time,  and  at  last  turned  to  me  somewhat 
impatiently : 

"Where 's  the  unicorn?  "  he  demanded.  "  'Cos 
that's  what  lions  fight  with.  But  I  'spect  this 
lion's  killed  him  dead.  Good  job,  too!  But 
what's  they  want  the  crown  for,  Ruddy?  Only 
kings  an'  queens  an*  things  like  that  wear 
crowns." 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  c-crown  when  I  g-grow 
up,"  said  Olivia  Mary,  "a  real  gold  one  with 
beautiful  glass  diamonds  in  it." 

"Pooh!  You're  not  a  queen,"  said  Phil. 

"B-but  I  might  b-be  when  I  grow  up.  I 
might  grow  into  one,  mightn't  I,  Ruddy?" 

"Possibly,"  said  I. 

"What's  possibly  mean?" 

"Not  probable;  a  very  unlikely  bird,"  said  I. 

At  this  moment  we  missed  Phil,  and  after 
some  search  found  him  in  front  of  the  kangaroos' 
cage,  staring  intently  at  these  creatures,  which 
looked  intensely  bored.  As  we  came  up  we 
heard  him  murmur  with  a  faint  sigh,  "It's  no 
good — they  won't  do  it." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  145 

"Do  what,  old  man?"  I  asked,  and  he 
answered: 

"You  know,  these — these  things  have  dear 
little  pockets  in  their  trousers.  Beenie  told  me 
that,  an'  I've  been  waiting  an*  waiting  to  see 
them  put  their  hands  in  their  pockets  an'  take 
out  their  babies.  They  have  n't  done  it  once. 
Perhaps  their  pockets  are  worn  out." 

"What  are  them?"  asked  Olivia  Mary. 
"They  don't  smell  nice,"  and  she  wrinkled  her 
dainty  nose  in  disgust. 

"Phil  will  tell  you  what  they  are,"  I  said. 

"He  doesn't  know,"  said  she  disdainfully. 

"I  do,"  retorted  Phil. 

"What  are  they— well?" 

Phil  turned  rather  pink,  and  shifted  un- 
comfortably. 

"They're — they're — I  know,  but  it  takes  a 
good  long  time  to  say  it.  You  have  to  say  it 
slowly.  There's  nothing  to  laugh  at,  Ruddy." 

Phil  was  obviously  trying  to  gain  time,  while 
he  racked  his  small  brains. 

"Course  you  don't  know  it,"  said  the  little 
girl  teasingly. 

"I  do.  They — they — they're  kangaroos- 
ters,"  he  shouted  triumphantly,  and  looked 
severely  at  two  ladies  who  giggled. 

"That  isn't  what  my  teacher  calls  them," 
10 


146  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

said    Olivia    Mary.     "S-she    s-says   them   are 
something  else.     There  is  a  p-picsher  of  them 
on  the  letter  W  page,  an'  it  says: 
"W  for  Wallaby,  wild  and  wise, 
She  was  borned  'neath  the  Ostrich  Skies  (probably 

Austral). 
0!  Wabbaly!  Wabbaly!  do  not  fear " 

She  knitted  her  pretty  brows,  and  thought  a 
moment.  "I  can't  remember  the  next  b-bit, 
but  it  goes  on  this  way: 

"And  lo!  the  W-w-w-abbaly  wild  has  fled, 
And  d-dashes  onward  to  scrub  ahead." 

"Why  does  she  scrub  her  head?"  asked 
Phil  thoughtfully.  "An'  what  does  the  Wab- 
baly do  it  with,  Livy?" 

I  guffawed,  and  Olivia  Mary  answered  with 
disdain:  "Phil  hasn't  any  more  sense  than 
a-a  catapult." 

She  uses  these  inappropriate  similes  freely 
and  as  they  occur  to  her,  but  Phil  chose  to  be 
mightily  offended. 

"I  have,"  he  said  indignantly,  "I  have  lots 
of  senses,  haven't  I,  Ruddy?" 

"If  you  have  a  sense  of  smell,  Phil,  which  I 
have,"  I  said,  "we'll  move  on  from  these 
malodorous  beasts." 

"What's  malodorous?" 

"It's  what  my  little  v-voice  is"  said  Olivia 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  147 

Mary,    complacently.     "I    heard    daddy    tell 
m-mummy  so  one  day." 

We  all  moved  on  and  rather  timidly  proffered 
buns  to  the  elephants,  a  line  of  which  stood 
twitching  their  great  ears  and  waving  their 
trunks  in  the  air.  Then  we  visited  the  monkey 
cages,  which  Olivia  Mary  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  come  near,  though  I  had  long  since  explained 
that  I  had  been  joking  about  her  shoes. 
Instead,  she  wandered  across  to  the  cage  of  a 
solitary  and  mournful  specimen  of  a  bald- 
headed  eagle,  and  there  waited  for  us. 

"What's  Livy  looking  at?"  asked  Phil, 
and  I  answered,  "That's  an  eagle.  Let's  go 
and  look  at  it." 

"Let's  creep  up  very  softly  and  see  if  we 
can  hear  it  praying,"  suggested  Phil. 

"Praying?    What  do  you  mean,  old  chap?" 

There  was  incipient  amusement  in  my  voice 
which  he  instantly  detected. 

"That's  what  it  says  in  the  book  at  school," 
he  said  doggedly. 

"E  is  for  Eagle,  a  bird  of  pray 
What  carries  the  farmers'  lamb-skins  away." 

"Lambkins!"  said  I.  "Look — look  at  that 
little  girl — ha!  ha!  ha!  Isn't — isn't  she 
funny?  Ha!  Ha!" 

I  had  to  give  some  excuse  for  my  laughter, 


148  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

and  in  deference  to  Phil's  feelings,  invented  one, 
but  I  don't  think  he  was  deceived  in  the  least. 
We  approached  the  miserable  and  mopy  bird 
and  Olivia  Mary  called  to  us: 

"Look  at  its  funny  little  b-blinky  eyes,  an' 
it's  c-c-claws." 

"Yes,  look  at  its  talons,  Phil,"  I  said. 

"L-let  me  see  them,"  cried  the  little  girl, 
pushing  Phil  aside.  "I  haven't  seen  them, 
but  I  1-learned  about  them  at  Sunday  school. 
A  man  had  ten  talons  an'  he  buried  them  in— 
in  a  t-table  napkin,  or  he  buried  one,  I  f-forget 
which." 

" 'Cos  what  for? "  demanded  Phil.  "Was  n't 
his  mother  angry  about  the  napkin?" 

"'Cos  he  wanted  to,  I  s'pose.  Don't  bother, 
Phil,"  she  replied. 

After  that  we  wandered  about  among  the 
cages,  and  the  children,  of  course  at  Phil's 
instigation,  counted  and  recounted  the  animals 
until  Olivia  Mary  wearied  of  his  enthusiasm 
and  said  fretfully  we  'd  better  be  getting  in  to  see 
the  "rest  of  it." 

"Did  you  preserve  the  seats?"  she  asked, 
importantly. 

Of  course  I  had  not  thought  of  doing  so,  and 
confessed  as  much,  guiltily.  Phil  and  I  would 
have  been  content  to  sit  and  dangle  our  feet 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  149 

from  one  of  the  narrow  wooden  planks  which 
ran  in  tiers  round  the  tent,  feeling  the  drafts 
play  round  about  our  ankles,  and  dropping  pea- 
nut shells  and  banana  peels  into  the  void 
beneath,  but  with  this  small  fine  lady  it  would 
not  do  at  all. 

Fortunately,  we  managed  to  obtain  three 
"preserved"  chairs  in  the  front  row,  and  sat 
there  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  being 
the  envied  possessors  of  the  best  seats  in  the 
house.  For  some  time  we  watched  three  clever 
fellows  in  tights  who  ran  about  on  invisible  or 
almost  invisible  wires,  and  contorted  themselves 
into  weird  positions,  and  drank  water  while 
standing  on  their  heads,  and  did  other  strange 
feats. 

These  acrobats  always  bore  me,  and  I  was 
quite  in  sympathy  with  Phil's  remark:  "Those 
men  in  singlets  do  good  tricks,  but  when  is 
the  circus  going  to  begin?" 

Then  came  in  Tommy,  the  Clown,  and  the 
audience  burst  into  instant  applause,  though,  as 
Phil  remarked  to  me,  he  had  n't  "done  a  single 
thing  yet,"  and  there  seemed  no  call  for  such 
enthusiasm.  But  it  seemed  that  there  was, 
and  that  the  audience,  better  informed  than  we, 
knew  their  Tommy.  From  the  very  beginning 
of  things,  even  while  the  men  in  tights  were 


150  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

giving  their  display,  there  had  been  a  lank 
cadaverous  creature  in  seedy  "blacks"  wander- 
ing, or  rather  shuffling,  aimlessly  about  the 
ring.  He  wore  a  preposterous  red  wig,  and 
an  enormous  white  bow  tie  and  his  expression 
was  nicely  blended  of  imbecility  and  melancholy. 
This  creature  the  young  members  of  the  audience 
hailed  as  "Dummy"  and  "Angus,"  pelted  him 
with  orange  peel  and  peanuts,  and  laughed 
heartily  at  his  painful  grimaces  and  speechless 
gestures,  but  Phil  regarded  him  with  unwinking 
solemnity,  evidently  puzzled  as  to  his  use  or 
purpose  in  the  circus-scheme.  He  then  dis- 
missed him  with  the  single  remark:  "He 
seems  as  silly  as  a  ijjiot,"  and  thenceforward 
ignored  his  presence.  But  "Tommy"  was 
different.  He  was  the  orthodox  clown  in  baggy 
white  blouse  and  pantaloons,  with  an  extra- 
ordinarily closely  cropped  cranium,  a  white- 
floured  face,  a  wide-painted  grin,  and  a  mulberry 
nose.  He  wore  an  absurdly  tiny  steeple-crowned 
hat  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  he  was  full  of 
quips  and  questions  and  antediluvian  jokes  at 
which  Phil  squirmed  with  laughter,  with  the 
rest  of  the  audience.  He  was  a  clever  chap,  too, 
and  after  making  many  bungling  efforts  at 
imitating  the  men  on  the  trapeze,  succeeded 
in  the  end  in  quite  eclipsing  their  performances. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  151 

"Oh,  good,  good!"  cried  Phil,  who  had 
been  feeling  rather  sorry  for  Tommy  in  his 
failures,  and  now  clapped  encouragingly. 
"What  makes  his  nose  like  that,  Ruddy?" 

"Oh!  that  hall-marks  the  good  clown," 
said  I. 

"  'Cos  what  for  did  he?"  asked  Phil  instantly. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  said  I  absently,  thinking  of 
something  else. 

"Fancy!"  said  Phil,  and  leaned  forward  to 
say  to  Olivia  Mary,  "That  Hall  marked  that 
good  clown's  poor  nose  like  that  for  nothing." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  she,  hard-heartedly. 
"He's  so  ugly." 

Tommy  was  now  riding  a  donkey  round  the 
ring,  sitting  face  to  tail  and  pretending  the  brute 
was  his  ship  and  its  tail  the  tiller.  So  all 
went  merrily  until,  unfortunately,  Tommy  and 
the  ring-master  had  quite  a  row. 

A  very  hectoring,  bullying  fellow,  that  ring- 
master, with  a  long  whip  which  he  kept  cracking 
within  an  inch  of  Tommy's  nose,  and  daring 
Tommy  to  answer  him  back.  Everybody's 
sympathies  were  with  Tommy.  The  quarrel 
came  about  in  this  way.  The  ring-master 
drew  a  rather  magnificent  looking  handkerchief 
with  a  broad  border  of  blue  spots,  rings  and 
horseshoes,  out  of  his  tail-pocket,  and  flicked 


152  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

the  dust  off  his  coat  sleeve  with  it,  replacing  it, 
after  a  bit  of  a  flourish,  in  his  pocket.  In  a 
moment  Tommy  had  crept  up  and  sneaked  the 
handkerchief  and  thrust  it  into  the  front  of  his 
blouse.  When  the  ring-master  discovered  his 
loss  he  was  in  a  fine  rage,  I  can  tell  you,  and 
though  Tommy,  trying  to  look  innocent,  went 
down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  pretending  to  help 
him  look  for  it,  it  was  for  no  use.  The  ring- 
master (whom  Phil  had  settled  in  his  own  mind 
was  Hall)  instantly  suspected  Tommy,  and  in  a 
very  short  time  had  his  property  back  again. 
Tommy  got  it  again,  however,  and  several 
times,  hiding  it  variously  in  the  ankle-string 
of  his  pantaloons,  his  pockets,  and  even  his 
steeple-crowned  hat,  which  the  angry  ring- 
master cleverly  whisked  off  his  head  by  lassooing 
it  with  the  lash  of  his  long  whip.  Then  the 
clown  began  to  get  quite  worried.  He  appealed 
to  the  audience.  The  handkerchief  was  his,  he 
said,  a  keepsake  given  to  him  by  his  mother-in- 
law  on  her  dying  bed,  and  was  made  extra  large 
to  hold  all  his  tears  on  such  a  joyful — he  should 
say  miserable — occasion. 

"What's  a  keepsafe?"  said  Phil  to  me. 
"And  what's  a  dying-bed?  Beds  don't  really 
die,  do  they?" 

I  hurriedly  explained,  and  bade  him  watch 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  153 

Tommy.  The  ring-master  had  not  yet  dis- 
covered that  the  clown  had  again  got  possession 
of  the  handkerchief  and  was  busily  scratching  a 
hole  in  the  sawdust  in  which  to  hide  it.  His 
back  was  toward  the  ring-master,  and  Phil  was 
watching  him  anxiously,  with  a  roving  eye 
occasionally  directed  toward  the  other  man. 
Suddenly  the  ring-master  felt  his  tail-pocket 
hurriedly,  and  turned  angrily  toward  the  un- 
conscious Tommy.  At  the  same  moment  Phil 
in  uncontrollable  excitement  scrambled  up  on  to 
his  chair  and  yelled  lustily: 

"Look  out!  He's  coming  again!  Stick  it 
inside  your  shirt,  you  silly  ijjiot!" 

An  absolute  roar  of  laughter  went  up  from 
the  whole  house,  laughter  in  which  the  ring- 
master and  the  clown  joined  heartily.  Phil's 
clear  penetrating  tones  carried  well  and  far,  and 
few  had  missed  his  warning  cry.  He  looked 
rather  embarrassed,  and  a  good  deal  surprised, 
and  sat  down  hurriedly. 

Tommy,  with  the  disputed  handkerchief  in 
his  hand,  stopped  opposite  our  chairs,  and  bowed 
profusely.  "Well  spoken,  little  man,"  he  said. 
"In  one  act  you've  got  the  laugh  I've  been 
waiting  and  working  for,  for  twenty  years. 
Not  a  dry  eye  in  the  house,"  he  concluded 
whimsically. 


154  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Phil  leaned  forward  and  said  confidentially: 

"I'll  mind  your  hankershif  for  you.  I  know 
a  place,"  he  nodded  mysteriously. 

"Where  ever!"  said  Tommy,  just  as  mys- 
teriously. 

"I'll  sit  on  it,"  whispered  Phil  cautiously. 

"The  very  thing,"  said  Tommy  enthusiasti- 
cally. "Why  didn't  I  think  of  that?  But 
stay;  I  can't  sit  all  my  life.  I'm  not  a  barn- 
door fowl,  and  even  a  hen  only  sits  three  weeks 
at  a  time.  Tell  you  what,  you  keep  it  for  me; 
keep  it  altogether  in  memory  of  me." 

He  held  out  the  handkerchief. 

"What!"  gasped  Phil.  "For  a  keepsafe, 
you  mean?"  His  eyes  sparkled.  It  was 
certainly  a  handsome  handkerchief.  Tommy 
nodded.  But  suddenly  Phil's  face  fell. 

"What  about  your  mother-of-laws?"  he 
asked.  ' '  Won 't  she  mind  ? ' ' 

"Not  a  bit,  dear  old  lady.     She'd  like  it." 

"Then,"  said  Phil,  gratefully,  "thank  you 
very  much,  and  I'm  so  sorry  Hall  hurt  your 
poor  nose  so." 

Tommy  gave  me  a  half-knowing,  half-in- 
quiring wink,  and  answered  vaguely: 

"Yes,  a  bit  of  a  bruiser,  old  Hall,  isn't 
he?" 

Then  he  was  called  away,  for  which  I  was 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  155 

rather  glad,  for  Olivia  Mary  was  whispering 
urgently  and  none  too  inaudibly: 

"Make  him  go  away,  Ruddy.  He's  so  ugly 
with  his  face.  He  f-frightens  me." 

Phil,  seeing  the  ring-master  very  much  oc- 
cupied, was  smoothing  out  his  new  possession 
admiringly. 

"It's  a  lovely  hankershif,  isn't  it,  Ruddy? 
I'll  give  it  to  you  on  your  next  birthday,  I 
think,  but  you  won't  mind  me  using  it,  until 
your  birthday  comes,  will  you?" 

After  that  the  fun  grew  fast  and  furious. 
There  were  beautiful  painted  ladies  on  galloping 
chargers  with  flowing  manes  and  tails,  and  men 
who  hung  head  downward  in  giddy  heights, 
holding  little  boys  in  their  teeth,  and  a  tiger 
that  rode  a  bicycle,  and  the  famous  fighting 
lion  which  did  a  little  sparring  with  a  little 
pug-faced  man  in  tights  and  boxing  gloves,  and 
anything  less  like  a  unicorn  could  hardly  be  con- 
ceived. In  short,  there  were  many  marvels,  and 
watching  Phil's  absorbed  face,  I  heartily  wished 
myself  back  at  my  first  circus  once  again. 

"How  do  you  like  it,  old  fellow?"  said  I 
to  him. 

"Decent,"  he  replied  briefly.  In  the  school- 
boyish  vernacular  of  the  period,  praise  can  no 
farther  go.  I  turned  to  My  Lady. 


156  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"And  how  do  you  like  it,  Mistress  Mine?" 
I  asked. 

She  sighed  sentimentally.  "I'd  give  the 
w-world  to  be  a  real  circus  girl  like  that  one  in 
the  b-blue  dress  an'  goldy  shoes.  There's 
n-n-nothing  to  laugh  at,"  she  answered. 

I  purchased  a  box  of  chocolates  from  the  boy 
who  went  up  and  down  with  a  basket,  crying 
with  monotonous  reiteration: 

"Oranges,  bananas,  ginger  beer,  nuts,  cakes, 
sweets,  and  lemonade." 

"Bag's-I,  the  silver  paper,"  said  Phil,  and 
seeing  objection  struggling  for  utterance  on 
Olivia  Mary's  halting  tongue,  I  hastily  bought 
another  box  which  I  handed  her,  giving  the  first 
to  Phil.  Phil's  box,  however,  had  some  real 
or  fancied  superiority  over  hers,  and  she  said  so 
discontentedly,  whereas  Phil,  in  his  good  nature, 
so  readily  offered  to  exchange  that  she  grew 
suspicious,  and  decided  to  keep  her  own,  after  all. 

After  the  show  was  all  over  we  hailed  a  taxi- 
cab,  and  started  for  home.  Both  the  children 
were  sleepy,  but  Phil  was  cheerfully  garrulous, 
if  a  little  rambling  in  his  utterances,  and  Olivia 
Mary  merely  cross. 

"That  circus  is  a  b-big  story-teller,"  she 
complained.  "On  the  picshers  there  was  all 
sorts  of  ladies  flying  about  in  the  air,  and  in  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  157 

circus  there — there — w-was  n't  one  1-lady  what 
flew." 

"The  difference  between  the  real  and  the 
ideal,"  I  said  sententiously,  and  Phil  roused  up, 
scenting  a  riddle. 

"I  give  in,  Ruddy,"  he  said,  "an' — an' 
it  was  a  lovely  circus."  His  head  drooped 
against  my  arm,  and  I  gave  him  a  surreptitious 
squeeze,  glad,  like  Beenie,  for  the  time,  that 
mine  was  a  "boy-child." 


CHAPTER  X 


IN   WHICH   PHIL  AND   I   ENTERTAIN 


wet  Saturday,  when  Phil  was  spending 
the  afternoon  with  me,  I  broached  a  plan 
I  had  been  revolving  in  my  own  mind. 

"Phil,"  said  I,  "what  do  you  say  to  having 
a  party?" 

"A  party?"  Phil  started  up.  "Oo,  yes, 
bosker!" 

That  is  the  best  of  Phil.  He  is  always  so 
whole-hearted  and  sanguine  in  entertaining  any 
pleasant  project.  I  had  been  conscious  of  many 
doubts  as  to  the  possibility  of  my  plan,  but 
Phil  never  even  took  one  into  account,  and 
his  unquestioning  acceptance  heartened  me 
considerably. 

"You  think  it  a  good  idea,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  love  parties,  but,  Ruddy,  who's 
going  to  have  the  presents?" 

"What  presents?" 

"What   the   little   boys   and    girls    bring?" 

"There  are  not  going  to  be  any  little  boys 
and  girls." 

Phil's  face  fell  considerably. 

"But  how  can  there  be  a  birthday  without 
158 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  159 

boys  and  girls  and  cakes  and  jelly,  an*  with 
your  name  on  in  hundreds  an'  fousands?" 

"Oh,  the  cakes  and  jelly '11  be  there  all  right 
but  not  the  others.  This  is  not  a  birthday — 
it's  a  party.  My  party  will  be  Mr.  Lynn  and 
Millicent  and  Miss  Ellis,  and  you  can  have 
Olivia  Mary,  that  is,  if  Mrs.  Binks  will  let  us 
have  a  party,  so  you  be  off  and  see  if  you  can 
get  on  her  soft  side." 

"Which  is  it?"  he  asked.  "All  her  sides 
seem  the  same  when  you  lean  against  her,  don't 
you  think?" 

"I've  never  taken  such  a  liberty,  Phil," 
I  answered. 

Phil  departed  to  the  kitchen,  and  I  purposely 
left  the  door  open  to  profit  by  his  masterly 
tactics. 

As  usual,  his  methods  were  direct  and  to  the 
point. 

"A  party's  coming,  Binks."  (He  never 
accorded  her  the  prefix,  and  from  him  she 
never  resented  its  omission.) 

' '  Drat  it ! "  she  cried.  ' '  Always  coming  when 
a  body's  extra  busy.  Where's  he  coming, 
back  or  front?" 

"All  over  the  house,"  said  Phil  cheerfully. 
"They  always  do  at  a  party,  you  know  — 
nobody  cares." 


160  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  meant  a  lady  or  a  gentle- 
man, a  party  like  that.     You  mean  a  swarry  - 
Wesleen  Mission?" 

Mrs.  Binks  has  a  weakness  for  tea-fights  and 
entertainments  of  this  description,  a  taste  which 
Phil  shares,  for  they  have  many  interests  in 
common,  and  hold  long  confabs. 

"It's  here,  in  this  house,"  said  Phil  with 
intrepidity  I  should  not  have  dared. 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Binks.  "A  party? 
Here?  And  who's  going  to  do  the  cooking  and 
the  cleaning  up  after?  Just  tell  me  that,  will 
you?" 

"You,  I  s'pose,"  suggested  Phil  hopefully. 

"Well,  if  that  is  n't  like  a  man  -    -" 

Closing  the  door  softly,  I  left  them  to  argue  it 
out.  I  had  every  confidence  in  Phil,  and  half 
an  hour  later  he  came  to  me,  with  pastry  crumbs 
on  the  front  of  his  blouse  and  a  dab  of  jam 
on  his  chin. 

"Well?"  said  I.  "The  enemy  repulsed  with 
great  slaughter?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Vanquished,  all  the  Tartar  horde,  I  say." 

"I  never  did,"  said  Phil,  very  pink,  "only 
one  that  was  burned  on  one  side,  and  she  said  I 
could  have  that,  and  that 's  the  most  aggravating 
hoven  Binks  ever  saw  in  her  born  days." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  161 

During  the  week  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
restraining  Phil's  hospitable  inclinations,  for  he 
issued  invitations  broadcast,  and  on  the  very 
day  of  the  party  I  had  to  buy  off  two  raga- 
muffin friends  of  his  I  found  on  the  doorstep 
by  his  invitation. 

My  invitations  were  all  accepted.  On  Phil's 
suggestion  I  had  included  Mr.  Wimple,  who, 
to  my  surprise,  promised  to  come.  Phil  and 
I  took  immense  pains  to  have  everything 
very  nice,  and  we  were  rather  complacent  over 
the  result,  but  waited  somewhat  anxiously  for 
the  opinion  of  Olivia  Mary,  who  arrived  first, 
in  a  very  fluffy  creation  of  white  embroidery, 
and  lace  socks.  She  surveyed  the  whole  with  a 
coldly  critical  eye. 

"Isn't  it  pretty,  Livy?"  asked  Phil  ad- 
miringly. 

"It  isn't  as  p-pretty  as  my  p-party,"  she 
answered.  "I  had  a  cake  with  b-birthday 
greetings  writ  with  pink  sugar." 

"I  think  it's  very  nice,  Ruddy,"  said  Phil, 
slipping  a  consoling  hand  in  mine. 

Soon  after,  the  other  guests  arrived,  and  Phil 
kindly  took,  in  a  great  measure,  the  duties  of 
host  off  my  shoulders. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Miller?"  he  asked  with  a 
beaming  face.  "I  put  those  flowers  there. 
11 


1 62  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

The  piano  is  n't  ours ;  a  kind  man  at  the  shop 
lent  it  to  us;  we  have  to  pay  ten  shillings. 
We  did  n't  have  enough  cups  and  plates  to  go 
round,  so  another  lady  lent  us  those,  and  we 
have  to  pay  a  shilling  every  cup  we  break,  and 
you  '11  have  to,  too,  if  you  break  one,  so  be  berry 
careful,  everybody." 

He  subsided  breathless,  and  everybody 
laughed  except  Olivia  Mary,  who  had  been 
accommodated  with  one  of  our  own  cups  and 
now  remarked  severely: 

"I-I've  got  a  cracked  c-cup." 

We  had  a  delightful  afternoon.  Miss  Ellis 
played  on  the  kind  man's  piano  a  long  classical 
selection  to  which  we  all  listened  politely.  Mr. 
Wimple  started  to  sing  "A  Life  on  the  Ocean 
Wave,"  but  forgot  most  of  the  words,  and 
filled  up  the  blanks  with  a  "  tummity-tum-tum- 

tum "  in  lieu  of  the  verse,  which  contented 

us  just  as  well.  Then  Millicent,  stripping  off 
her  long  groves,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and 
played  and  sang  several  sweet  little  songs.  I 
sat  in  blissful  content.  To  have  Millicent  here 
in  my  room,  playing  on  my  piano — well,  mine 
for  the  time,  anyhow — filled  me  with  a  dreamy 
pleasure.  After  she  had  left  the  piano,  Olivia 
Mary  volunteered  to  say  a  "piece"  she  had 
learned  at  the  "Kindergarter." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  163 

"With  actions,"  she  added  importantly,  and 
we  politely  assenting,  she  asked: 

"Shall  I  say  'I  s-saw  a  ship  a-s-sailing'  or 
'A  Froggy  when  he  wouldn't  go?" 

"A  donkey,  don't  you  mean?"  I  suggested. 

"No,  mine  was  a  frog  with  a  op'ra  hat.  I'll 
s-say  that — no,  I  won't — yes,  I  will.  N-no, 
I'll  say  C-c-cock  Robin." 

"Say  'Birds  in  their  Nesters,"  suggested 
Phil,  who  has  an  odd  habit  of  forming  his 
plurals,  thus:  " nest-nesters,  desk-deskers." 

"Shan't.  You  p-put  me  out,  Phil !  N-n-now 
I'm  going  to  begin." 

She  started  off  in  a  high,  rapid  voice  with  an 
up-and-down  intonation: 

"I  s-saw  a  ship  a-s-sailing 
Sailing  on  the  sea 
An!  no!  the  ship  was  lading 
With  p-pretty  things  f-for  me. 
There  was  apples  in  the  cabing 
And  crumpets  in  the  hole," 

("Comfits,"  translated  Millicent  to  me,  with 
a  spasm  of  laughter,  and  Olivia  Mary  went  on.) 

"The  masts  was  made  of  s-silk, 
The  sails  was  made  of  gold. 
The  four  and  twenty  white  mice  (I  mean) 
The  four  and  twenty  sailors 
That  stood ." 

"No!"  with  a  little  stamp  of  her  foot,  "I'll 


1 64  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

begin  from  the  beginning  again."     Which  she 
did,  ending  with  a  little  triumphant  rush: 
"The  capting  said  K-k-k — Quack-quack." 

"Shall  I  say  another?" 

"I'd  like  to  say  one  now,  Ruddy,"  said  Phil 
to  my  surprise,  for  he  is  usually  very  reluctant 
to  "show  off." 

"Very  well,  old  chap,"  I  said.  "If  the 
company  is  not  bored." 

"He  doesn't  know  any,"  remarked  Olivia 
Mary. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Phil  hotly. 

"You're  only  in  'f-fat  cat,'  well!" 

"I  don't  care.  I  know  some  potery  as 
well  as  you." 

"If  Hermia,"  thus  had  Mr.  Wimple  re- 
christened  Olivia  Mary,  "would  be  silent,  we 
might  be  able  to  listen  to  Humphrey." 

Millicent  made  Olivia  Mary  sit  beside  her, 
and  allowed  the  child  to  despoil  her  of  bangles 
and  rings,  with  which  the  small  coquette 
adorned  her  own  slim  little  hands,  and  pea- 
cocked with  vanity. 

Meanwhile  Phil,  very  red  in  the  face,  stood 
up  like  a  soldier,  very  rigid,  cogitating  deeply, 
a  frown  on  hi3  forehead. 

"Go  on,  Phil!"  encouraged  Millicent. 

The  silence  was  becoming  painful. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  165 

"What  shall  I  say,  Ruddy?"  appealed  Phil 
to  me,  wriggling  uncomfortably. 

"Whatever  you  like,  old  man.  You  know 
some  piece,  surely." 

"  I  know  '  Ding-dong-dell,  Pussy's  in  the  well,' 
only  I  forget  it." 

"He  knows  'Once  there  was  a  little  kitty," 
volunteered    Olivia    Mary,    "only   he   says   it 
wrong." 

"No,  I  don't!" 

"Yes,  you  do." 

"I  don't." 

"You  do  so." 

"I  don't!" 

"You  do." 

"Hush!"  said  Millicent.  "Tell  about  the 
kitty,  Phil,"  and  thus  encouraged  Phil  sighed, 
wriggled,  stood  on  one  leg,  cast  up  his  eyes, 
giggled,  and  then  plunged  into  that  classic  of 
our  childhood: 

"Once  there  was  a  little  kitty, 
Whiter  as  the  snow; 
In  a  barm  she  used  to  floric, 
Long  time  ago. 

Nine  soft  paws  had  little  kitty, 
All  in  a  row " 

Phil  stopped,  evidently  troubled  by  this  some- 
what remarkable  natural  fact,  while  Mr.  Wimple 


1 66  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

shook  his  head,  murmuring  sotto  voce,  "Some- 
thing wrong  there,"  and  Olivia  Mary  shrilled 
triumphantly: 

"He's  said  it  wrong.     He " 

Millicent's  soft  palm  closed  resolutely  over 
her  mouth,  and  Phil  began  again  doggedly: 

"Four  soft  paws  had  little  kitty, 
Paws  as  soft  as  dough, 
And  they  bit  the  little  mousie, 
Long " 

"That 's  wrong! "  up  bounced  the  irrepressible 
again.  "I'll  say  it!  I'll  s-say  it;  I  know  it. 
Let  me  say  it." 

"No,  we  don't  want  to  hear  you,"  said 
Millicent  firmly.  "Go  on,  Phil.  Of  course  we 
all  know  the  little  kitty,  and  can  help.  This 
is  the  way  it  goes :  '  Four  sharp  teeth  had  - 

"Wrong!"  said  Olivia  Mary  positively,  and 
Millicent  looked  annoyed.  "Nine  pearl  teeth 
—  that's  what  it  is." 

"Nine  pearl  teeth,"  began  Phil  again  doubt- 
fully, and  stopped. 

"White  as  the  snow,"  prompted  Mr.  Wimple. 
"How  well  I  remember  learning  that  when  I 
was — eh,  what? "  —for  Miss  Ellis  had  broken  in: 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Wimple,  but  you  are  in- 
correct; it  is  'sharp  and  white,'  I  know.  I 
learned  it  as  a  child." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  167 

"I  think  not,  madam.  God  bless  my  soul! 
I  was  just  such  another  little  shaver  as 
Humphrey.  We  must  appeal  to  Miss  Lynn." 

"Well,  both  seem  wrong  to  me,"  said  Milli- 
cent.  "I  think  it  is  something  about  'running 
to  and  fro." 

"Not  the  teeth,  surely,"  I  murmured,  and 
Millicent  retorted  with  warmth: 

"Well,  what  is  your  version?" 

"I  refer  the  whole  thing  to  Olivia  Mary,"  I 
said.  "But  I  have  an  impression  that  some 
one,  or  something,  cried  out,  'Oh!'  Am  I  not 
right,  Olivia  Mary?" 

"I'm  sure  you're  not,"  said  Millicent  de- 
cisively, and  Miss  Ellis  smiled  in  a  superior  way, 
and  Mr.  Wimple  said,  "I  stick  to  my  guns." 

We  all  turned  to  Olivia  Mary  for  judgment. 

"You  are  all  wrong,"  said  that  young  lady 
crushingly,  and  then  we  became  aware  that 
Phil  had  discovered  the  right  version  for  him- 
self, and  regardless  of  our  preoccupation  he  was 
getting  through  it  at  a  great  rate,  and  now  came 
triumphantly  to  the  end  of  the  stanza.  We 
all  applauded,  and  Phil,  looking  very  pink  and 
complacent,  was  just  sidling  on  to  my  knee  when 
Olivia  Mary  remarked  chillingly: 

"You  w-went  wrong,  you  know.  I  t-told 
you  you  would." 


1 68  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Well,  I  collected  myself,"  answered  Phil 
with  dignity,  and  with  a  little  smothered 
sound,  between  tenderness  and  mirth,  Millicent 
snatched  him  to  her,  crying: 

"So  you  did,  you  darling,  and  your  piece 
was  much  the  nicer. 'r 

"B-b-better'n  mine?"  asked  the  outraged 
Olivia  Mary  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  nodded  Millicent,  caressing 
Phil's  hair. 

"I'm  inp-pig,  but!" 

"I  don't  care." 

"An'  I  can  say  free  t-times — only  I  can't 
remember  free  eights  are  twenty-seven." 

"An'  I  can  say  two  times  'cept  I  don't  know 

"Trice  tens  are  twenty, 
Trice  'levens  are  twenty-two, 
Trice  twelves  are  twenty-four," 

cried  Phil,  in  singsong. 

After  this  our  tragedy  happened.  Phil 
whispered  to  me,  and,  in  defiance  of  etiquette, 
I  whispered  back  to  Phil,  and  we  both  had 
an  air  of  mystery  which  excited  Olivia  Mary's 
curiosity  to  a  fever  point,  till  she  danced  with 
impatience.  Then  we  formally  invited  Millicent 
to  come  and  see  our  garden,  and  Phil  stipulated 
she  must  keep  her  eyes  shut  till  he  told  her  to 
open  them.  He  then  led  her  by  the  hand.  I 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  169 

wanted  to  pretend  it  was  necessary  that  I  should 
take  her  other  hand,  but  she  said,  "Not  at 
all,"  she  would  trust  Phil  to  take  care  of  her 
anywhere. 

"I'll  s-shut  my  eyes  too,  Phil,"  said  Olivia 
Mary. 

"You  can  if  you  like,"  said  Phil  coldly. 
"But  it  is  n't  nothing  about  you.  It 's  a  s'prise 
for  Miller." 

"If  you  mean  about  the  garden,"  said  the 
distractingly  pretty  fiend,  "I'll  just  t-tell  her 
all  about  it.  They've  went  an' " 

Phil's  look  of  appeal  to  me  was  coincident 
with  my  clapping  my  hand,  not  too  gently,  over 
Olivia  Mary's  lips,  while  Millicent,  putting  her 
hands  over  her  ears,  cried  out: 

"I'm  not  listening,  Phil,  dear!" 

"Now,"  cried  Phil,  in  triumph,  and  Millicent 
opened  her  eyes. 

Phil  looked  at  her,  his  face  alight  with 
delighted  expectancy. 

Down  the  length  of  the  garden,  brave  and 
green  and  sturdy,  in  the  tiny  multiple  flourish- 
ing heads  of  mustard  and  cress,  ran  the  inscrip- 
tion, "Millicent  Lynn,"  clear  on  the  brown 
soil.  But  no  cry  of  delight  and  surprise  broke 
from  Millicent's  lips  in  answer  to  Phil's  impa- 
tient looks.  Only  a  deep  flush  sprang  to  her 


170  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

cheek,  and  she  gave  me  one  look  of  indignant 
surprise  and  hauteur.  And  in  that  moment 
of  strained  silence  my  heart  sank  with  horrible 
misgiving — nay,  certainty.  What  a  blunder 
I  had  made!  What  a  crass  bungling,  imperti- 
nent fool  I  had  been!  How  should  any  girl 
not  feel  resentment  at  the  sight  of  her  name 
sprawling  across  a  man's  garden  under  the 
curious  eyes  of  any  stranger,  or  grinning  trades- 
man, who  chanced  to  cross  it? 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  asked  Phil  wistfully, 
his  face  clouding  with  disappointment.  She 
did  not  answer  him,  but  turned  to  me. 

"I  am  surprised,  Mr.  Lingard,  that  you 
should  take  such  a  liberty." 

"I  am  sorry,  Miss  Lynn.  Phil  thought 
that  you " 

"Oh,  don't  shelter  behind  the  child,  please," 
she  broke  in  with  a  low  vexed  laugh.  "Of 
course  you  suggested  it." 

"No,  he  didn't,"  cried  Phil  eagerly,  not 
understanding,  but  loyal  in  my  defense.  "Not 
a  bit.  He  just  told  me  to  do  it,  did  n't  you, 
Ruddy?" 

"You  see!"  said  Millicent,  with  another 
cruel  little  laugh. 

"He  buyed  the  seeds,  too,"  proceeded  Phil, 
unconsciously  damning  my  cause  with  every 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  171 

word  he  spoke.  "And  drawed  the  letters  with 
a  stick,  but  he  let  me  scatter  the  seeds  'cos  I 
wanted  to,  berry  much.  It  took  a  n'awful 
lot  of  seeds,  too,"  he  added  mournfully,  "and 
there  was  n't  enough  left  to  write  my  properly 
name,  so  I  had  just  to  write  Phil,"  and  he 
pointed  to  his  own  abbreviated  name,  rather 
patchy,  in  straggling,  uneven  characters. 

"Why,"  exploded  Olivia  Mary,  "that's  not 
the  way  to  spell  Ph-Ph-Phil.  F-i-1-1,  Phil,"  she 
chanted,  "an'  he's  went  an'  spelled  it  with  a  P." 

But  no  one  paid  any  heed  to  her.  With  some- 
thing of  an  effort,  Millicent  called  up  a  smile, 
and,  slipping  her  arm  round  Phil's  neck,  turned 
his  little  earnest  face  up  to  hers. 

"I  think  it  was  lovely  of  you,  Phil  dear," 
she  said,  "and  thank  you  ever  so  much,  little 
boy,"  and  she  kissed  him. 

"Thank  Ruddy,  too,"  said  Phil. 

"Ruddy  asks  for  no  thanks — but  pardon," 
I  said,  half-jesting,  half-earnest.  But  to  this 
she  returned  no  answer,  changing  the  subject 
neatly,  and  though,  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon 
she  was  pleasant  and  gay,  I  felt  that  I  was 
in  disgrace,  and  that  our  pleasant  bond  of 
camaraderie  had  yielded  to  the  strain  and 
snapped.  Old  Mr.  Wimple,  who  had  practically 
monopolized  Millicent  all  the  afternoon,  on  that 


172  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

most  unjustifiable  plea  that  elderly  gentlemen 
are  fond  of  advancing,  "  I  'm  only  an  old  fellow," 
was  the  first  of  my  guests  to  leave,  and  as  I 
was  bidding  him  good-by  he  exclaimed  in 
his  loud,  hearty  voice,  "Lingard,  my  boy,  I 
like  your  fiancee  very  much.  Nice  girl,  very, 
Miss  Lee — congratulations ! ' ' 

Then  he  rushed  off,  and  just  behind  me  stood 
Millicent.  How  much  had  she  heard?  What 
would  she  think?  She  could  know  nothing  of 
Mr.  Wimple's  fatal  habit  of  jumping  to  con- 
clusions. I  thought  her  manner  was,  if  any- 
thing, a  shade  colder  as  she  said  good-by. 

When  the  last  of  them  had  gone,  Phil  and  I 
and  Olivia  Mary,  who  said  she  would  be 
"allowed"  to  stay  to  tea,  if  she  was  asked, 
returned  to  the  dining  room,  which  looked 
indeed  a  banquet-hall  deserted,  with  its  litter 
of  soiled  china,  and  its  chairs  pushed  here  and 
there.  While  the  children  wrangled  over  the 
remains  of  the  colored  jelly  in  the  glass  dish, 
and  drained  the  lemonade  bottles,  I  stood  in  a 
rather  dismal  reverie,  sucking  at  my  pipe  and 
thinking  deeply.  Then  we  took  Olivia  Mary 
home,  and  at  her  gate  she  recited  her  little 
set  speech  of  thanks,  evidently  drilled  into  her. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  a  pleasant  evening 
—  afternoon,  I  mean." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  173 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "Glad  you 
enjoyed  it." 

"I  did  n't  enjoy  it  very  much,"  she  answered 
disparagingly.  "I  had  only  one  cream  puff 
and  Phil  had  two,  an'  all  the  p-parties  I've 
been  to,  we  fish  for  toys  in  a  tub  full  of  brandy." 

"Indeed!"  I  cried,  for  this  extravagance 
savored  of  the  freak-banquets  of  American 
millionaires,  but  Phil  lightened  my  bewilder- 
ment by  explaining: 

"She  means  brand,  like  what  you  give  fowls 
for  dinner." 

"Phil,"  said  I  plaintively,  on  our  homeward 
way,  "I  can't  love  Olivia  Mary!" 

"  It 's  very  wicked  to  hate  any  one,"  he  replied 
in  a  highly  moral  tone.  "I  don't  hate  any  one, 
'cept  only  the  butcher's  dog  'cos  he  bit  Terry 
in  two  places,  and  God  would  n't  mind  that, 
would  He,  Ruddy?" 

Phil  was  to  remain  all  night  with  me,  and  as 
he  was  very  sleepy  I  carried  him  off  to  bed  as 
soon  as  he  had  had  a  bite  to  eat.  He  explained, 
between  yawns,  that  he  always  had  his  warm 
bath  on  Saturday  night,  but  as  he  was  so  tired 
we  waived  that  rite.  As  he  stood  before  me, 
blinking  sleepily,  while  I  pulled  his  jersey  over 
his  head,  rumpling  his  hair  very  much  in  the 
process,  or  sat  him  on  my  knee  to  unbutton  his 


174  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

stout  little  boots  and  admire  his  sturdy  scratched 
knees  and  firm  brown  calves,  I  felt  a  delight  in 
his  strong  boyish  beauty,  as  though  he  had 
been  my  own,  but  when  in  his  ridiculous  little 
pink-striped  pajamas  he  cuddled  his  cheek 
against  my  shoulder,  and  I  felt  the  warmth  and 
weight  of  his  firm  little  body  and  strong  arms,  I 
began  dimly  to  comprehend,  in  my  blundering 
man's  way,  why  mothers  so  yearn  to  keep  their 
boys  babies  as  long  as  possible.  We  had  made 
up  a  bed  out  of  a  short  couch  and  two  chairs,  and 
all  day  Phil  had  been  delighted  with  this  novel 
style  of  bed,  and  had  even  wanted  to  exhibit 
it  to  our  guests,  but  now,  after  looking  at  it  very 
closely,  he  confessed  a  desire  to  sleep  in  a 
"properly"  bed.  So  I  popped  him  into  my 
bed,  reflecting  that  I  could  move  him  when  he 
slept.  And  now  this  sleepy,  blinking,  and  yawn- 
ing boy  became  perversely  wide  awake.  He 
coaxed  me  to  lie  beside  him  and  tell  him  stories, 
demanding  another  and  another,  until  at  last 
I  said: 

"I'll  tell  one  more,  Phil;  but  mind,  it's  the 
last,  the  very  last,  so  choose  your  own." 

After  some  deliberation,  he  chose  the  story 
of  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions,  and  asked  how 
many  lions  there  was.  I  had  n't  the  least  idea, 
so  I  said  "Seven,"  and  hoped  Scripture  might 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  175 

not  confound  me.  But  Phil  seemed  disappointed 
and  said,  "Only  seven?"  in  such  a  dissatisfied 
tone  that  I  answered  brazenly,  "I  mean  seventy- 
seven,"  and  he  seemed  much  more  content. 
What  are  a  paltry  few  score  lions  to  stand 
between  Phil  and  his  sense  of  the  fit? 

He  made  me  roar  for  the  lions  until  he 
clutched  me,  and  burrowed  into  my  chest  with 
his  head,  in  an  ecstasy  of  mingled  terror  and 
delight.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  formulating 
a  somewhat  complicated  problem  as  to  how 
much  of  Daniel  I  thought  each  lion  would  get, 
if  "God  had  loved  the  lions  better 'n  He  loved 
Daniel,  and  had  let  him  be  etten  up,"  that  his 
voice  trailed  off  sleepily,  and  quite  suddenly  he 
fell  asleep,  as  I  knew  by  his  soft  regular  breath- 
ing. It  was  a  relief  to  me,  as  I  had  grave  doubts 
as  to  whether  Daniel  would  have  "gone  round" 
my  seventy-seven  lions,  to  any  satisfactory 
degree.  I  had  work  to  do,  so  I  gently  dis- 
engaged Phil's  strong  little  hands.  They  made 
one  feeble  semi-conscious  clutch  after  me,  then 
relaxed,  and  with  a  sleepy  sigh  the  boy  rolled 
over  and  settled  down.  It  was  perhaps  an 
hour  later  that  I,  deep  in  papers  and  in  a  halo 
of  tobacco  smoke,  was  startled  by  a  small 
voice  from  across  the  hall. 

"Ruddy!" 


176  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Yes,  Phil." 

"Are  you  there?" 

"Yes — here   for  hours  yet.     Go  to  sleep." 

"I  can't." 

"Turn  over  and  try." 

A  moment  later:  "I've  turned  over,  and 
I  can't." 

"You   will    soon.     Shut   your    eyes    tight." 

"All  right.     Good  night,  Ruddy." 

"Good  night,  Phil." 

Five  minutes  later:    "Ruddy!" 

"Yes." 

"You  there  still?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  goodnight!" 

"Goodnight." 

A  few  minutes'  silence  and  then:  "Ruddy — 
the  clothes  are  slipping  off  of  me." 

"Pull  'em  up,  then." 

"I  have,  an'  now  I  can't  find  the  pillow. 
Oh,  here  it  is,  I  had  my  feets  on  it.  Good 
night,  Ruddy." 

"Good  night,  boy!"  rather  shortly. 

Fifteen  minutes  filled  with  deep  breathings, 
sighs,  and  creakings  of  the  spring-mattress 
from  across  the  hall.  Then  came  softly, 
"Ruddy?" 

No  answer. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  177 

"Ruddy"  (pause)    —    "Ruddy" 

"Ruddee/"  — RUDDY!"     The    last    a   positive 
roar. 

"Look  here,  Phil,"  I  cried,  "this  won't  do, 
you  know.  You  must  go  to  sleep  like  a  good 
chap." 

"Ruddy,  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Oh,  it'll  keep  till  the  morning." 

"I  want  a  drink,  Ruddy,  I'm  so  thirsty!" 

"Not  really,  Phil?" 

"Yes,  I  am— I'm  so  thirsty!" 

"Very  well,  old  chap." 

I  took  him  in  a  brimming  glass  of  water, 
which  he  barely  sipped  at  before  handing  it 
back  to  me.  He  moved  across  the  bed. 

"Lie  down  by  me,"  he  said,  wheedlingly. 

"I  can't,  Phil;  I've  work  to  do.  Good 
night." 

I  had  got  as  far  as  the  door  when  I  heard 
reproachfully,  "You  haven't  said  good-good 
night." 

"I  have,  little  chap,"  I  said,  wheeling  about, 
the  candle  in  my  hand  showing  his  pink  cheeks, 
tousled  hair,  and  wide  eyes  above  the  sheets, 
"lots  of  times!" 

"Not — not  properly — you  never  kissed  me." 

"Dear  little  chap!" 

I  was  back  in  a  moment,  and  kissed  him 

12 


i;8  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

very  heartily,  rearranged  the  bedclothes,  and 
turned  away. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  said  gravely,  and  I 
echoed,  "God  bless  you,  Phil!"  and  went 
away  with  softened  thoughts. 

Across  these  thoughts  broke  a  small  persistent 
voice : 

"Ruddy!" 

"Ah !  — h — h ! "  I  swallowed  a  word  unuttered. 

"I  haven't  said  my  prayers." 

"Well,  say  them  in  the  morning;  I  guess 
the  Lord  will  forgive  you  this  once." 

"He  can't  take  care  of  me  if  I  don't  ast  Him. 
There's  so  many  little  boys,  He  might  forget 
if  I  don't  remind  Him." 

I  rose  resignedly,  and  went  to  the  other  room 
in  no  mood  for  conducting  prayers,  but  Phil's 
little  devout  face  and  folded  hands,  as  he  knelt, 
disarmed  me.  He  rambled  conscientiously 
through  a  great  many  private  petitions,  among 
which  he  was  good  enough  to  include  my  name 
for  blessing,  opening  his  eyes  to  remark  in  a 
conversational  tone,  "This  is  my  friend  Ruddy, 
dear  God.  I  've  often  told  you  about  him,  and 
now  here  he  is."  He  concluded  all  with  a  very 
sonorous  "Ah-men!"  but  just  at  the  end 
murmured  something  under  his  breath.  My 
curiosity  was  aroused. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  179 

"What  did  you  whisper,  Phil?"  I  asked. 

He  colored,  wriggled  a  bit,  and  began 
ostentatiously  counting  the  fringes  on  the 
counterpane,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject. 
On  being  pressed,  however,  he  said  his  whisper 
concerned  Terry  and  his  chances  of  ultimately 
reaching  Heaven. 

"Beenie  says  it's  wicked  to  pray  about  dogs, 
but  God  made  him  as  well  as  me,  and  Heaven's 
the  nicest  place  of  all,  nicer  even  than  the 
Gardens,  and  it  would  be  just  the  same,  if  it 
had  'Dogs  not  omitted'  on  the  gate.  And 
'sides,  God  can  do  anything,  can't  He?" 

"I — I  believe  so,"  I  returned. 

"Frow  the  world  into  the  sea,  and  fly  up  to 
Heaven  in  an  airing-plane,  could  He?" 

"It's  to  be  hoped  He  wouldn't  want  to  do 
anything  so  silly!"  I  replied  evasively. 

"No,  but  could  n't  He,  though?" 

"Now  you  go  to  sleep,  Phil." 

"Could  He  though— Ruddy?  Could  He? 
Could  He,  Ruddy?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  said  testily,  driven  to  bay. 

"Yes,"  murmured  Phil  in  a  satisfied  tone, 
"God  can  do  anything.  He  could  make  little 
pigs'  tails  grow  out  of  their  noses  if  He  liked. 
He  would  n't  though,  'cos  He 's  kind,  and  the 
little  pigs  could  n't  feed  theirselves  if  He  did." 


1 8o  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"I'm  going  back  to  my  work,"  I  said,  "and 
you're  going  right  off  to  sleep  like  a  man." 

"How  does  a  man  go  to  sleep?"  he  asked. 

I  picked  up  the  candle,  and  Phil  remarked 
wistfully :  "I  w — wonder  what  it 's  like  at  daddy 
and  mummy's  place  now!" 

As  I  detected  incipient  tears  in  the  quaver- 
ing tones,  I  put  down  the  candle  hastily. 

"See  here,  little  chap,  how'd  you  like  me  to 
lie  down  with  you?" 

The  grateful  beam  that  answered  me  was 
enough.  I  blew  out  the  light,  lay  down  beside 
him,  and  in  five  minutes  my  guest  was  asleep. 
I  cautiously  slipped  away,  and  when  later  I 
came  to  bed  myself,  I  found  him  stretched 
right  across  the  bed,  and  most  of  the  clothes 
on  the  floor.  As  I  gently  removed  him  to  his 
own  couch,  and  felt  the  quiet  rise  and  fall  of 
his  childish  breast,  and  marked  the  innocent 
sweetness  of  his  face,  I  thought  Peter  Pan 
must  have  enticed  away  the  sturdy,  restless, 
chattering  boy  of  waking  hours,  and  left  some 
lovely  changeling  in  his  place.  If  so,  he  re- 
pented of  his  bargain,  and  returned  him  before 
morning,  for  about  5  A.M.  I  was  rudely  awakened 
from  a  dream  of  Millicent,  particularly  kind, 
by  something  hard  and  heavy  striking  me  full 
in  the  face. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  181 

"Ugh!  ah! — um — um — who  the  deuce  threw 
that?"  I  cried  angrily,  starting  up. 

"Me!"  shrilled  Phil's  delighted  voice,  and 
there,  dancing  precariously  on  his  improvised 
couch,  I  saw  the  imp  of  the  day.  The  missile 
was  the  cushion  from  the  couch  in  the  dining 
room,  which,  being  short  of  pillows,  we  had 
dressed  in  a  white  slip  and  utilized  for  Phil's 
bed. 

"Look  out,  Phil!"  I  cried,  but  the  warning 
came  too  late;  chairs  and  couch  parted  com- 
pany in  the  middle,  and  Phil  disappeared  in 
an  avalanche  of  bedclothes.  When  he  rose  to 
the  surface  again  it  was  with  a  red  and  angry 
face,  which  deepened  in  tint  when  I  burst  out 
laughing. 

' '  Mad  old  bed ! "  he  cried  resentfully.  ' '  Why 
can't  I  sleep  in  a  properly  bed  like  you?" 

I  cut  further  reflections  short  with  a  well- 
aimed  pillow,  which  bowled  him  over  again,  and 
he  struggled  to  his  feet  redder  than  ever,  and 
looking  undecided  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
Finally  laughter  conquered,  and  seizing  the 
pillow,  he  flung  it  at  me,  and  then  the  feathers 
flew.  Then  he  came  into  my  bed,  and  rode  on 
my  knees,  and  laughed  himself  nearly  hysterical 
when  they  suddenly  collapsed  under  him,  and 
kept  crying,  "Do  it  again,"  even  unto  seventy 


1 82  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

times  seven.  Then,  hearing  Mrs.  Binks  stirring, 
I  said: 

"Now  tumble  up  and  help  Mrs.  Binks  with 
breakfast." 

"What  are  we  going  to  have  for  breksfus?" 

"What'd  you  like?" 

" Baking  an'  eggs.     Let's!"  he  cried,  dancing. 

"Very  well;  and  two  boiled  eggs  for  me. 
Off  with  you." 

I  heard  his  little  bare  feet  go  pattering  down 
the  passage.  Half  an  hour  later,  when  I  came 
down  for  my  cold  tub,  I  heard  from  the  bath- 
room an  edifying  conversation. 

"And  I  says  to  my  good  man,  I  says,"  said 
Mrs.  Binks,  breaking  eggs  into  the  pan,  "I've 
never  stood  such  goings-on  in  my  maiden  home 
so  to  speak,  and  I  ain't  agoin'  to  now,  an'  my 
good  man " 

"Was  he  very  good,  Binks?" 

"Good?  'Oo?  Me  pore  dear  'usbin?  Oh, 
good  enough  as  they  go — (No,  Phil,  you  can't 
break  no  more  eggs  into  the  pan;  you  let  the 
last  mess  on  to  me  clean  range) — but  you  see, 
good  man  is  just  a  manner  of  speaking,  so  to 
speak.  Any'ow,  he's  gone  now,  pore  dear,  an' 
this  I  will  say — (don't  be  fingerin'  the  bacon) 
— you  would  n't  believe  the  number  of  wreafs 
on  'is  corfin." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  183 

"Yes,  I  would,"  said  Phil,  "if  you  tell  me. 
How  many,  Binks?"  as  usual,  athirst  for  nu- 
merical details. 

"Oh,  I  can't  exactly  say  'ow  many." 

"Was  there  five  hundred?" 

"Five  hundred?  Good  life!  'E  wasn't  the 
King  of  England!" 

"Wasn't  he?  Where's  he  gone  now?  You 
said  he'd  gone." 

"Oh,  'e  was  took  off,  pore  dear,  quite 
sudden-like." 

"Did  the  p'leeceman  take  him,  Binks?" 

"No,  no;  he  died,  I  mean,  of  peumonia,  'e 
did !  It  was  his  sister  as  I  could  n't  abide, 
though.  Oh,  my  dear,  that  woman!  It  was 
all  owin'  to  'er  that  me  and  Aunt  Susan  fell 
out." 

Phil  was  breathlessly  interested.  I  could  see 
through  the  crack  in  the  door. 

"Oo!  was  it  a  cram  or  a  boat?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

"Tram  or  boat?    What  yer  mean?" 

"What  you  fell  out  of?  'Cos  both  is  very 
dangerous.  If  you  fall  out  of  a  cram,  you  break 
all  your  bones  an'  a  motor  car  runs  over  you 
'fore  you  can  get  up;  and  if  you  fall  out  of  a 
boat,  a  shark  eats  you  up,  and  then  you're 
drownded,  an'  p'raps  your  aunty  could  n't 


1 84  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

swim.  Lots  of  aunties  can't,  'cos  they  don't 
learn  when  they're  little  boys — little  girls,  I 
mean — but  I  can,  Binks,  with  Ruddy's  hand 
under  my  chin,  and  both  legs  like  a  frog.  I  '11 
show  you." 

"Bless  the  boy!"  cried  Mrs.  Binks.  "How 
you  do  run  on.  No,  we  never  fell  out  of  nothing, 
but  it  was  a  disagreement,  so  to  speak,  and  her 
name  was  Amelia,  and  since  that  time  I  never 
could  abide  the  name,  though  you  may  call 
me  predijuiced." 

"No,  I  wouldn't,  Binks,  really,"  Phil  re- 
assured her  politely,  and  then  I  called  him  for 
his  tub.  We  had  a  delightful  time.  Phil 
succeeded  in  getting  us  both  thoroughly  wet, 
and  in  splashing  the  bathroom  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  and  then,  after  helping  him  to  dress, 
and  changing  into  dry  clothes  myself,  we  sat 
down  to  breakfast  with  sharpened  appetites. 
Phil  ate  a  surprising  amount  of  bacon  and 
eggs,  and  when  I  had  eaten  one  boiled  egg,  and 
was  reaching  for  the  other,  Phil's  eyes  began 
to  twinkle. 

"Don't  look  for  a  minute,  Ruddy,"  he  said, 
and  I  obediently  stooped  down  to  offer  the  cat 
a  piece  of  bacon  rind. 

"Now,"  said  Phil,  and  his  small  face  was 
dimpling,  his  dancing  eyes  fixed  on  me.  Before 


MY   FRIEND   PHIL  185 

me  was  my  plate  and  an  egg — something  odd- 
looking  about  that  egg — in  my  egg  cup.  Then, 
calling  for  the  pepper  and  salt,  and  with  much 
preparation,  I  chipped  the  top  off  my  egg  to 
find  only  the  empty  shell,  and  the  time-honored 
joke  was  on  me.  The  room  rang  with  Phil's 
delighted  laughter.  He  never  tires  of  this  joke. 
After  breakfast,  before  the  church-goers  began 
to  stream  past,  Phil  and  I  had  work  to  do. 
Armed  with  a  Dutch  hoe  and  giving  him  a  small 
short-handled  spud,  we  carefully  eliminated 
all  trace  of  Millicent  Lynn  from  the  garden. 

"Bother!"  said  Phil,  wiping  his  hot  brow. 
"I  wish  we  had  n't  planted  Miller  in  our  garden. 
There's  not  a  bit  of  her  now.  It's  a  good  job." 

But  I  knew  there  was  another  garden  where 
she  bloomed  perennially,  and  it  was  not  twenty 
minutes'  labor,  a  man  and  a  boy,  a  Dutch  hoe 
and  a  spud  that  would  root  her  out  of  that 
garden  ground. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  WHICH  THERE  ARE  "REWARDS" — AND 
"FAIRIES" 

TDHIL  came  in  one  day  with  a  large  square 
missive  in  his  hand,  its  immaculate  white- 
ness only  slightly  marred  by  several  smudgy, 
small  thumb  marks.  This  missive  he  handed 
with  an  air  of  some  importance  to  me,  and  I 
opened  it  solemnly  and  read  in  the  best  school- 
mistress copper-plate: 

"The  Principal  and  pupils  of  the  Morning- 
side  Kindergarten  request  the  pleasure  of  Mr. 
— .  Ruddy's  company  at  their  classrooms  on 
the  occasion  of  the  annual  prize-giving.  Songs, 
recitations,  and  exercises  by  the  children. 

R.S.V.P." 

"Will  you  come,  Ruddy?"  asked  Phil  as  I 
finished  reading. 

"Rather!  Thanks  awfully!"  I  replied  grate- 
fully. "Do  you  perform?" 

"Form  what?"  said  he. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.     "How  was  it  I  came 
to  receive  this  flattering  invitation  from — er— 
Miss  er — Schoolmarm?" 

"That's  not  her  name,"  said  Phil.  "She's 
Miss  Dampier,  an'  she  said  we  could  ask  three 

1 86 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  187 

people  besides  our  parents,  but  I  said  I  had  so 
many  parents,  an'  she  laughed  an*  said  to  tell 
who  I  wanted  to  come  most.  So  I  said  you, 
an'  she  said  'Is  he  a  little  friend?'  an'  I  said 
no,  a  big  one,  bigger 'n  her,  an'  then  she  said  I 
should  call  you  'Mister' — fancy  calling  you 
'Mister' — an'  then  she  asked  me  how  to  spell 
you,  but  Ruddy,  don't  you  think  a  teacher 
should  know  how  to  spell  everything  an'  not 
have  to  ask  little  boys?" 

"Well,"  said  I,  as  I  reached  for  my  pipe, 
"did  you  ask  any  one  else?" 

"I  couldn't  think  of  any  one  but  Beenie, 
and  Miss  Dampier  said  I  had  to  think  hard, 
and  some  one  would  be  sure  to  come  into  my 
head,  so  I  thinked  and  I  thinked,  and  that  old 
lame  man  that  sells  papers  in  Pitt  Street  came 
into  my  head,  so  I  told  her." 

"But  you  don't  know  him,  do  you?" 

"No." 

"Nor  his  name  even?" 

"No,  I  don't;  but  she  said  to  think,  an'  I 
thinked  him.  I  could  n't  help  it.  I  did  n't 
make  my  think  come  to  him.  What  makes  your 
thinks  come,  Ruddy?" 

"Now,  now,  Phil,"  said  I  hastily,  "you've 
lots  of  friends,  I  know.  Did  n't  you 
think,"  I  added  with  a  fine  air  of  attempted 


188  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

nonchalance,  "of  —  er  —  Miss  Lynn,  for 
instance?" 

"Oh,  yes;  she's  another  parent  of  mine,  of 
course,  but  I  forgot  about  her,"  he  answered. 
"Could  I  have  that  apple?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "take  it.  But  about  Millicent 
—  there 's  still  another  invitation  left,  is  n't 
there?" 

"No,"  said  he,  examining  the  empty  fruit 
stand.  "Not  one,  if  you  mean  the  apples." 

"No,  no,"  said  I  impatiently;  "I  mean  an 
invitation  like  the  one  you  brought  me  asking 
me  to  go  to  the  prize-giving." 

"Oh,  you  mean  another  letter,"  he  answered, 
as  he  bit  thoughtfully  into  his  apple.  "No, 
I  gave  you  the  last  one  I  had.  There's  none 
left  for  poor  old  Miller  at  all." 

"Well,  but  you  could  get  another,"  I  sug- 
gested insinuatingly.  "Tell  your  teacher 
you've  thought  of  another  friend,  and  get  her 
to  write  a  letter  to  Miller." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  answered  carelessly. 
"Ruddy,  where's  the  cat?  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  nours  an'  nours,  an'  I  think  he 's  lonely 
without  me." 

"I  imagine  not,  old  man,"  I  answered. 
"I  fancy  he  saw  you  coming,  and  has  dis- 
creetly retired." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  189 

"What's  screetly  tired  mean?"  he  asked. 
"Too  tired  to  play  with  me?" 

"That's  about  it,"  I  answered.  "And  now 
you  run  along,  Phil,  and  don't  forget  about 
Millicent." 

He  promised,  but  seemed  so  neutral  in  the 
matter  that  I  had  not  much  faith  that  he  would 
remember.  However,  a  day  or  two  later,  he 
remarked : 

"I  told  Miss  Dampier  about  Miller  an*  that 
you  wanted  her  awfully  badly  to  come,  and 
Miss  Dampier  laughed  and  said  it  would  be  all 
right,  'cos  Miller  was  a  friend  of  hers." 

"Oh,  Phil,"  I  groaned,  "why  did  you  say 
that?" 

"You  told  me  to,"  he  said  in  indignant 
astonishment.  "  Don't  you  want  Miller,  now? " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  do,  but — but — oh, 
well,  never  mind." 

I  fervently  trusted  Miss  Dampier  would  not 
repeat  Phil's  innocent  remark  to  Millicent  Lynn, 
but  these  girls,  with  their  shy  love  of  mischief 
in  such  matters — how  far  they  can  be  trusted 
is  open  to  doubt. 

"You'll  like  seeing  me  get  my  prize,  won't 
you,  Ruddy?"  said  Phil  cheerfully.  "I  won- 
der will  it  be  a  red  book  like  the  one  Livy 
got  for  her  birthday." 


190  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

A  sudden  pang  of  misgiving  seized  me.  Phil, 
though  the  dearest  fellow  in  the  world,  and  the 
most  congenial  little  companion  and  full  of  cold- 
drawn  common  sense,  does  not  altogether  shine 
in  scholarship.  He  has  still  a  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  between  b's  and  d's  on  the 
printed  page;  his  g's,  s's,  and  y's  are  invariably 
made  back  to  front;  he  is  never  quite  sure 
that  four  eights  are  not  thirty-six,  or  nine  fours 
thirty- two,  and  he  has  only  just  left  off  spelling 
— d-o-g  =  puppy,  because  the  picture  corres- 
ponding to  d-o-g  was  that  of  an  unmistakable 
puppy  of  uncertain  breed.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  will  tell  you  that  he  can  read  any  lesson  in 
his  book  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  can  make  paper 
boats  and  crowns  with  any  one.  Still,  I  was 
uneasy. 

"Phil,"  said  I  with  some  hesitation,  trying 
to  be  diplomatic,  "you  know  every  one  does  n't 
always  win  a  prize.  Perhaps  you  may  not— 

But  at  the  mere  suggestion  Phil  gave  me  such  a 
look  of  surprised  reproach  that  I  faltered  into 
silence. 

"Of  course  I'll  get  a  prize,"  he  said  emphati- 
cally; "of  course  I  will.  Littler  boys  than  me 
get  them  sometimes." 

I  held  my  peace,  sincerely  wishing  him  to  be 
a  true  prophet.  But  the  more  I  thought  of  it 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  191 

the  more  doubtful  I  felt,  and  since  Phil  counted 
on  it  so  confidently  I  could  not  bear  that  he 
should  be  disappointed.  I  even  had  more  or 
less  serious  thoughts  of  writing  privately  to  Miss 
Dampier,  offering  a  special  prize  to  be  given  to 
Phil,  the  anonymity  of  the  giver  to  be  strictly 
preserved,  but  that  austere  word  Principal 
deterred  me.  Goodness  knows  what  penalties 
one  would  make  oneself  liable  to  from  the 
educational  authorities  of  New  South  Wales 
if  one  should  attempt  to  tamper  with  the  pro- 
fessional integrity  of  a  lady  Principal.  But 
Phil  went  his  way  serenely,  with  no  doubts  to 
trouble  his  confident  complacency. 

At  last  the  great  day  arrived.  The  ceremony 
was  timed  to  begin  at  three  o'clock,  and  I  left 
my  office  at  two-thirty,  jumped  into  a  car,  and 
was  whirled  away.  When  I  arrived  at  the 
schoolroom  I  found  it  humming  with  light  chat. 
It  was  fairly  full  of  proud  mammas,  lady  cousins 
and  big  sisters  in  pretty  frocks,  and  a  sprinkling 
of  no  less  proud  but  more  self-conscious  papas, 
and  away  at  the  end  was  a  broad  shallow  plat- 
form crowded  with  children.  It  was  a  pretty 
sight;  dainty  little  misses  in  a  mist  of  millinery, 
frills,  and  laces,  and  curls  and  ribbon  bows,  and 
a  solid  phalanx  of  small  boys,  fine  sturdy  chaps 
in  white  jumpers;  shock  heads,  sleek  heads, 


192  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

and  curly  heads — and  all  these  little  heads 
restlessly  turning  and  moving  like  a  field  of 
bonny  flowers,  with  bright  faces  nodding  and 
swaying  in  the  wind. 

I  had  no  sooner  entered,  however,  than  all 
these  children,  in  response  to  a  sharp  tap -tap 
somewhere,  rose  en  masse,  and  to  the  cracked 
strains  of  a  tinkling  piano  sang  a  lusty  song  of 
welcome  at  me.  I  was  overwhelmed.  Though 
deeply  sensible  of  the  honor,  I  am  a  modest 
man,  and  thus  having  public  attention  drawn 
to  me  filled  me  with  confusion,  and  I  sank  into 
a  seat  at  the  back  of  the  hall.  As  the  applause 
which  followed  this  effort,  and  the  rustling 
subsidence  of  thirty  or  more  children  into  their 
seats,  died  into  silence,  however,  reflection 
convinced  me  that  it  was  only  accident  that 
my  entry  should  have  coincided  with  that  song, 
and  though  feeling  more  insignificant  I  felt 
less  embarrassed.  Then  I  began  to  look  about 
me  for  friends. 

On  the  platform  I  had  no  difficulty  in  picking 
out  Olivia  Mary's  ruddy  nimbus,  and  I  felt  sure 
from  the  energetic  nodding  of  the  huge  golden- 
brown  bow,  which  perched  like  a  great  butter- 
fly on  her  curls,  that  she  was  laying  down  the 
law  jto  some  one,  and  stammering  badly.  Then 
my  roving  eye  lighted  on  Phil,  and  I  waved  my 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  193 

hat  at  him,  but  he  gave  me  only  one  furtive 
smile,  and  then  became  very  solemn  and  im- 
mediately looked  away,  so  I  conceived  I  had 
probably  violated  the  etiquette  of  Kindergarten 
gatherings,  and  also  became  solemn.  But  all 
the  time  I  was  keeping  my  eyes  open  for  a  pink 
frock  and  a  large  hat  with  pink  rosebuds. 
And  at  last,  between  the  fat  shoulder  of  a  portly 
mamma  and  the  thin,  bare,  collarless  neck  and 
all-too-evident  collarbones  of  the  lady  beside 
her,  I  found  her  I  sought,  but  on  this  occasion 
she  was  dressed  in  soft  blue  with  a  delicious 
saucy  little  hat,  with  a  blue  plume  on  it,  perched 
at  an  angle  on  her  gold-brown  hair.  As  the 
fates  would  have  it,  there  was  a  vacant  chair 
behind,  and  one  also  at  her  side,  and  I  hesitated. 
Dare  I? 

The  children  were  now  on  their  feet  again, 
going  through  a  series  of  extraordinary  con- 
tortions, with  writhings  and  gaspings;  most 
alarming  had  I  not  seen  Phil  at  it  often,  and 
knew  it  to  signify  "breathing  exercises."  A 
fresh,  fair,  slender  young  thing  was  in  charge  of 
this  demonstration,  and  I  gasped  when  I  heard 
some  one  address  her  as  "Miss  Dampier." 
This  the  austere  Principal?  But  just  then  a 
small  boy  in  the  front  rank  of  the  children 
was  seized  with  an  irrepressible  fit  of  the  giggles, 

13 


194  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

and  Miss  Dampier  turned  and  froze  the  de- 
linquent into  solemnity  with  a  glance,  and  I 
saw  the  Principal  surely  enough.  I  rose  when 
I  saw  every  one's  attention  engaged,  and 
tiptoed  down  the  room  and  slipped  into  the 
vacant  seat  behind  Miss  Lynn. 

"Good  afternoon,"  I  breathed,  just  to  the 
right  of  a  pink  ear  shaded  by  a  brown  tendril. 

I  swear  these  women  have  eyes  in  the  back 
of  their  heads,  and  an  intuitive  sense  at  the 
end  of  every  hair,  for  she  answered  me  in  a  low 
collected  voice,  and  with  not  an  atom  of  sur- 
prise, and  yet  I  had  been  watching  her,  and 
she  had  never  once  turned  her  eyes  in  my 
direction. 

"Is  n't  it — beautiful?"  I  said,  indicating 
the  children  but  thinking  of  something  very 
different. 

"Wonderful!"  agreed  Millicent  briefly. 

"Look  at  Phil  gasping  like  a  fish  out  of 
water." 

"Hush,  don't  whisper.  It  puts  the  chil- 
dren out." 

"I  won't  if  I  may  sit  beside  you,"  I  said. 
"May  I  have  that  chair?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Millicent's  eyes  were 
intent  on  the  stage. 

"May  I?"     I  persisted  in  a  louder  voice. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  195 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet.  The  chair  is  not  mine 
to  give  or  refuse,"  she  returned  in  a  guarded 
whisper. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  the  chair,"  I  said  cheer- 
fully, "but  only  the  permission  to  sit  beside 
you.  Please!  Oh,  don't  frown  like  that,  for 
I  shall  go  on  whispering  until  you  say  'Yes,' 
and  when  all  the  mammas  turn  round  and 
'Hsh'  at  us,  they'll  blame  you  as  well  as  me." 

"Come  on  then,  for  goodness  sake!" 

"For  my  own  sake,"  I  said  thankfully,  and 
transferred  myself. 

"Hsh!"  said  a  tall  woman  in  front  of  us, 
and  Millicent  said  "There"  in  a  reproachful 
and  indignant  voice. 

"There ! "  said  I.     "It  was  you  she  glared  at." 

"Your  fault!"  she  said  accusingly,  and  I 
agreed  cheerfully.  A  prim-looking  little  boy 
with  a  rather  large  head  and  large  round 
spectacles  now  came  forward  and  recited  a 
highly  moral  "piece"  about  two  little  kittens 
which  "began  to  quarrel  and  then  to  fight," 
and  when  he  had  primly  concluded,  and  primly 
walked  back  to  his  seat,  a  small,  rotund,  pink 
person  arrived,  by  a  series  of  wriggles,  at  the 
front  of  the  platform. 

"The  darling!"  exclaimed  Millicent  under 
her  breath,  while  the  Principal  said  that 


196  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

"Marjory  Ware  would  now  give  us  a  short 
recitation.  Marjorie  is  three,  and  our  baby." 
The  plump,  pink  person  aforesaid  dimpled 
and  blushed,  tucked  a  fat  little  chin  sideways 
into  a  delicious  fat  neck,  and  remarked  hurriedly 
to  the  wings: 

"Thwim.  thwan  thwim! 

Thwim  thwan  thwim! 

Thwim  in  th'  thwamp;   thwim  in  th'  thee 

Ower  the  thee  an'  bakka  dain 

Well  thwum  thwan." 

After  which  she  stood  and  beamed  at  us,  until 
the  Principal  called  her  down.  I  looked,  be- 
wildered, at  Millicent,  but  she  was  applauding 
heartily,  with  every  one  else.  "Wasn't  she 
sweet?"  she  cried. 

"Y-yes,"  I  said,  "but  what  was  it?  Is  it 
Chinese  or — or  Esperanto,  or  merely  Australian 
English?" 

"As  if  you  couldn't  tell!" 

"No,  indeed,"  I  said  earnestly.  "Did  you 
understand  it?" 

"Understand  it?  Of  course!"  she  said,  with 
the  air  of  implying  that  any  one  who  did  not 
must  be  a  fool. 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  I  said  bluntly. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  she  said  in  a  superior 
way,  "that  you  don't  know  the  old  nursery 
rime  'Swim,  swan,  swim'?" 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  197 

"I  must  plead  guilty,"  I  said.  "My  nursery 
education  must  have  been  sadly  neglected. 
Won't  you  take  pity  on  my  ignorance,  and  tell 
me  how  it  goes?" 

"Why,  every  one  knows  it,"  she  said  disdain- 
fully. "The  old  thing: 

"Swim,  swan,  swim! 
Swim,  swan,  swim! 
Swim  in  the  thwamp — thwim " 

"Aha!"  said  I.     "You're  tripping!" 

"Well,"  she  said  exasperatingly,  "you  try 
it;  you  could  never  say  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  could  n't,"  I  said,  "and  I  have  a 
new  respect  for  Miss  Marjory  Ware,  but  as  for 
that  Principal — it  could  not  have  been  mere 
accident,  but  malice  prepense  which  set  that 
lisping  baby  at  that  particular  rime,  and  now 
me  thinks,  when  I  observe  her,  that  she  hath  a 
roguish  eye  for  all  her  principality.  Pooh! 
A  fig  for  these  Principals  and  their  principles!" 

"Be  quiet!"  Millicent  whispered  again,  and 
this  time  it  was  Olivia  Mary  who  came  out, 
with  great  airs  of  consequence,  to  sing  a  song, 
and  acquitted  herself  quite  odiously  well,  and 
preened  herself  accordingly. 

"Look,  here's  dear  old  Phil,"  whispered 
Millicent,  and  unconsciously  her  voice  had  taken 
on  a  warmer,  friendlier,  more  intimate  tone, 


198  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

so  that  once  more  I  blessed  Phil  in  my  heart 
as  the  one  bond  of  comradeship  (between  us. 

Phil  and  three  other  little  boys,  smiling 
broadly,  came  forward  to  tell  us  they  were 
''jolly,  jolly  sailor  boys,"  with  appropriate 
"actions"  to  confirm  the  statement.  But  from 
the  first  there  seemed  to  be  a  serious  discrepancy 
between  Phil's  gestures  and  those  of  the  first 
boy.  Phil  was  the  fourth  boy  in  the  line,  and 
my  eye  kept  traveling  from  him  to  the  leader, 
and  back  again,  with  much  doubt,  for  when  the 
first  boy  hauled  on  the  pulley  ropes,  Phil  cheerily 
danced  a  hornpipe,  and  when  the  former  turned 
the  windlass,  Phil  hoisted  the  "grand  old  flag." 

"There's  something  wrong,"  I  murmured  to 
Millicent,  and  she  agreed,  and  a  moment  later 
whispered  indignantly: 

"I  see  what  it  is.  It's  the  fault  of  that  third 
boy — dear  little  Phil  keeps  watching  him,  and 
he  is  doing  it  wrong  all  the  time,  silly  little 
donkey!"  (Yes,  she  did  say  "donkey.") 

However,  no  one  seemed  to  mind  very  much, 
and  they  all  applauded  very  heartily  when  the 
jolly  sailor  boys  went  back  to  their  seats. 
After  that,  rather  a  painful  incident  occurred. 
A  little  girl,  very  much  befrilled  and  beribboned, 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  to  recite.  And 
there  she  stood,  mute  as  a  fish,  for  some  two 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  199 

minutes.  She  was  given  some  encouraging 
applause  and  then  she  giggled,  but  still  she 
said  nothing. 

"Go  on,  Margaret,"  whispered  a  very  audible 
voice  from  the  front  seats,  and  the  Principal's 
cool  voice  broke  in,  prompting: 

"I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears " 

"I  once  had"  -(giggle)  —  "a  sweet  little 
doll"  —  (giggle) — said  Margaret,  and  stopped 
again.  And  there  she  stood  and  giggled  and 
blushed  and  blushed  and  giggled,  until  the 
Principal,  still  with  admirable  coolness,  said: 

"You'd  better  come  down,  Margaret." 

But  Margaret  would  not  budge,  but  still  stood 
the  picture  of  red-faced  hysterical  distress, 
until  the  Principal  crossed  the  stage,  took  her 
hand,  and  led  her  off  in  tears. 

"Stage  fright — a  bad  case,"  said  I,  and 
Millicent  murmured  sympathetically,  "Poor 
little  soul." 

This  closed  the  first  part  of  the  performance, 
and  then  came  the  event  of  the  day — the 
awarding  of  the  prizes.  All  this  time  a  table 
had  been  standing  in  front  of  the  platform, 
on  which  were  ranged  two  rows  of  books,  brave 
in  scarlet  and  blue  and  green  bindings.  Many 
a  bright  eye  had  wandered  in  that  direction, 
many  a  speculative  one,  and  now  all  eyes  were 


200  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

turned  there  as  by  mutual  consent.  The 
Principal  tapped  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
made  her  little  introductory  speech,  and  then 
took  up  the  first  prize,  which  went  to  the 
little  boy  in  glasses.  Two  or  three  others 
were  handed  out  to  as  many  children,  and 
every  time  a  book  was  taken  up  from  the  table 
I  could  see  a  half -movement  from  Phil,  as  if 
he  expected  his  summons  at  any  moment.  I 
felt  more  and  more  uneasy. 

"Well,  if  he  doesn't "  I  caught  myself 

murmuring. 

"He's  sure  to,"  snapped  Millicent,  without 
looking  at  me,  which  betrayed  that  her  thoughts 
were  much  the  same  as  mine. 

"I  hope  so,"  I  said  meekly,  and  just  then  a 
very  resplendent  book  was  carried  off  by  Olivia 
Mary,  coquettishly  shaking  back  her  curls. 

At  first  Phil's  smile  had  been  one  of  con- 
fident anticipation  and  at  every  disappoint- 
ment he  had  still  beamed  cheerfully.  He  was 
content  to  wait.  As  the  pile  of  books  rapidly 
diminished,  however,  I  thought  that  the  smile 
grew  a  little  strained,  the  look  a  little  more 
anxious.  Doubt  was  creeping  in,  and  I  found 
my  heart  beating  almost  as  rapidly  as  his  must 
be  doing  with  suspense  and  longing.  I  kept 
glancing  at  my  little  friend,  and  away  again 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  201 

hastily,  lest  he  should  detect  the  doubt  in  my 
face.  Millicent,  too,  I  noticed,  kept  looking  at 
him  anxiously  and  back  at  the  table.  The 
sudden  removal  of  a  huge  hat  in  front  of  me 
gave  me  a  fuller  view  of  the  table. 

"Hello!"  I  exclaimed  in  dismay.  "Only 
three  books  left!" 

"Isn't  it  awful?"  burst  out  Millicent.  "If 
Phil  does  n't  get  a  prize  I  '11  never  speak  to 
Mabel  Dampier  again." 

"Nor  I,"  said  I,  although  I  had  never  yet 
done  so.  "This  thing  is  getting  on  my  nerves," 
I  continued.  "Could  n't  we  send  round  and — 
and  offer  a  special  prize  that  Phil  would  be  sure 
to  win? — for — for  the  boy  with  the  nicest 
smile,  for  instance,  to  be  decided  by  vote?" 

Millicent  looked  at  me  with  pitying  disdain. 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  every 
mother,  aunt,  big  sister  and  cousin  would  vote 
for  her  own  particular  boy,  and  believe  it,  too?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  assented  with  a  sigh. 
"Oh,  I  say!" 

The  last  prize  but  one  was  being  carried 
off  by  the  boy  in  spectacles  again. 

"Insufferable  prig!"  muttered  Millicent  vin- 
dictively, as  that  inoffensive  youth  passed, 
beaming  through  his  large  round  lenses.  I 
glanced  again  at  Phil.  His  eyes  were  fixed 


202  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

hungrily  on  the  one  remaining  book,  and  as  the 
Principal  took  it  up  from  the  table  he  half  rose 
in  his  seat.  Hope  was  dying  hard.  It  could 
not  be  possible  there  was  no  prize  for  him! 
Sanguine  to  the  last,  he  waited.  The  name 
uttered  by  the  Principal  was  not  Philip's. 

Millicent  was  murmuring  at  my  side,  "A 
shame!  A  shame!" 

There  were  actually  tears  in  her  eyes.  For 
a  moment  I  dared  not  look  at  Phil.  When  I 
did,  I  saw  that  he  was  very  pale,  with  a  slightly 
bewildered  look  on  his  small  face,  as  though 
he  could  not  yet  believe  it,  but  when  he  caught 
my  eye  he  smiled  determinedly  and  bravely, 
with  only  a  slight  quiver  of  the  lip. 

"That's  all  over  then,"  I  said  to  Millicent. 
"It  is  a  shame,  poor  little  chap.  But  don't 
take  it  so  to  heart,  Miss  Lynn.  I'll  take  him 
down  town,  or  we  will,  and  buy  him " 

"That  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing  at  all," 
she  broke  in.  "But  it's  very  nice  of  you  to 
mind  so  much  for  him,  and  to  understand  just 
how  much  it  means.  Most  men  would  n't." 

I  glowed  at  this  crumb  of  praise  from  one  who 
was  not  lavish  with  it  as  a  general  rule,  and  the 
next  moment  she  clutched  my  arm  excitedly: 

"But  look!"  she  cried.  "Look  at  Mabel 
Dampier." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  203 

Miss  Dampier  was  untying  a  parcel,  and  this 
parcel  undoubtedly  contained  books,  not  such 
large  and  gorgeous  books,  perhaps,  as  the 
others,  but  still  books.  There  was  still  hope. 

Miss  Dampier  rose  and  explained  that  this 
second  installment  might  be  termed  "consola- 
tion" prizes,  inasmuch  as  they  were  to  be 
presented  to  those  children  who  had  won  no 
award  for  actual  merit  in  their  work. 

The  first  of  these  prizes  was  awarded  to  Phil 
Wyndam.  Like  a  flash  the  red  color  streamed 
back  into  Phil's  white  cheeks;  in  a  couple  of 
bounds  he  was  at  the  Principal's  side,  and  all 
over  the  hall  could  be  heard  his  fervent  little 
voice : 

"Oh,  thank  you,  berry  much!  I  thought  I 
would,  somehow." 

In  the  laugh  that  followed  this  I  could  not 
resist  crying  out,  carried  away  by  excitement 
and  fervor: 

"Hurrah,  Phil!"  and  I  heard  Millicent,  as 
excited  as  myself,  cry  "Bravo!  Bravo!" 

Phil  had  been  making  his  way  back  to  his 
seat,  but  his  delight  was  too  much  for  him,  and 
suddenly  he  turned  and  dashing  down  off  the 
platform,  ran  to  me,  waving  his  book  over  his 
head,  crying: 

" I've  got  one,  Ruddy,  I 've  got  one,  after  all." 


204  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

And  in  a  moment  Millicent  and  I  were  shaking 
his  hands,  and  hugging  him,  and  all  three  of  us 
were  talking  at  once. 

"I  am  glad,  I  am  glad,  little  Phil,"  cried 
the  girl. 

"Well  done,  little  chap,"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  laughing  excitedly.     "I  got 
one,  you  see.     First  I   thought  I  would,  and 
then  I  thought  I  would  n't,  and  then  I — I  — 
did,  an'  I- 

And  suddenly  he  burst  into  tears,  the  reaction 
proving  too  much  for  his  gallant  little  spirit. 
Millicent  drew  him  down  between  us,  pressing 
his  little  wet  cheek  against  her  pretty  dress. 

"There,  there,  dear  heart!"  she  murmured. 
"Don't  cry." 

In  a  moment,  however,  Phil  had  command 
of  himself. 

"Gim — Gim'me  a  hankershif,"  he  muttered, 
with  only  a  slight  catch  in  the  breath,  and 
Millicent  put  a  dainty  bit  of  lace  and  muslin 
into  his  hand.  He  scrubbed  his  eyes  with  this, 
and  then  returned  it. 

"It — it  seems  funny,"  he  said,  with  rather 
an  uncertain  smile,  "to  be  crying  when  you've 
got  a  prize,  but  I — I — just  couldn't  help  it." 

"I  know,  I  know,  dearest,"  she  said.  "I 
nearly  cried,  too." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  205 

"None  of  the  boys  saw  me,  did  they?"  he 
asked  anxiously,  and  we  both  reassured  him. 
We  were  turning  over  the  leaves  of  his  book 
when  Olivia  Mary  sauntered  up,  her  big  bril- 
liantly-bound book  under  her  arm. 

"Hello,  Livy!"  cried  Phil,  in  a  friendly 
tone.  "I  got  a  prize,  too." 

"Yours  is  only  a  conversation  prize,"  said 
little  Miss  Disdain.  "Miss  Dampier  said  so." 

"Yes,"  said  Phil  beaming.  "That's  what 
it  is.  What's  a  conversation  prize,  Ruddy? 
Mine's  a  conversation  one." 

"Mother  told  me,"  said  Olivia  Mary.  "It's 
the  k-kind  what " 

"It's  the  loveliest  kind  of  prize  of  all,  dear," 
said  Millicent.  "The  kind  that  one  gets,  after 
waiting  patiently  and  cheerfully  for  a  long  time, 
and  when  one  has  almost  given  up  hope." 

"The  kind  of  prize  I  am  trying  for,  Phil," 
I  said. 

Olivia  Mary  looked  a  little  doubtful,  and 
then  remarked  to  Millicent: 

"You  can  look  at  my  prize,  if  you  like.  It's 
b-better'n  Phil's." 

"No,  thank  you,"  returned  Millicent  coldly; 
"I'm  looking  at  Phil's." 

"You  look  at  it  then,  Ruddy." 

"No,  thanks,"  said  I,  and  bent  over  Phil's 


206  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

book  also.  A  moment  later  Olivia  Mary 
sauntered  off. 

Millicent  murmured  something  under  her 
breath : 

"Little " 

I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  "prig"  or 
"  pig  "  she  said.  I  like  to  think  it  was  the  latter. 

"You're  not  really  trying  to  get  a  prize,  are 
you,  Ruddy?"  asked  Phil  of  me. 

"I  am,  indeed,  Phil,"  I  returned.  "The 
one  all-consoling  prize." 

"But  mens  don't  go  to  school,  do  they, 
Miller?" 

"Don't  they,  Miller?"  said  I  in  a  low  voice. 
"Are  n't  we  in  school  all  the  time,  suffering  the 
necessary  discipline,  practicing  the  necessary 
patience,  hoping  against  hope  that  in  the  end 
the  mistress  will  relent,  and  confer  the  prize 
which  means  reward  and  consolation  in  one?" 

But  never  a  word  said  Millicent  Lynn. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  WHICH  PHIL  HAS  A  "DOWN-RIGHT-BAD"  DAY 

TF  I  have  led  any  one  to  suppose  that  my 
Phil  is  a  boy  of  unfailingly  exemplary 
behavior  I  have  done  his  versatility  scant 
justice.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  he  has  what  his 
nurse  Beenie  calls  his  "down-right-bad"  days, 
and  it  was  on  one  of  these  days  my  fate  to  have 
the  charge  of  him.  Phil  is  well  able  to  come 
to  my  house  unescorted,  and  usually  does,  but 
according  to  Beenie  he  had  been  so  bad  that 
he  was  n't  to  be  trusted,  so  she  brought  him 
to  my  door,  since  it  seemed  "no  one  couldn't 
do  nothing  with  him"  at  home. 

Phil  refused  to  kiss  Beenie,  and  ran  and  hid 
in  the  broom  cupboard,  but  came  out  a  few 
moments  later  and  wept,  because  he  said  he 
wanted  to  kiss  Beenie  good-by,  and  she  had 
gone. 

"Well,  it's  too  late  now,"  I  said. 

He  sat,  the  picture  of  crossness,  kicking  the 
leg  of  my  armchair,  and  to  cheer  him  up,  I  said : 

"Let's  play  draughts." 

"Don't  want  to  play  draughts." 

"What  about  mowing  the  lawn,  then?" — a 
207 


208  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

courtesy-title  for  my  strip  of  grass  in  the 
back  garden. 

"Too  hot." 

"What  shall  we  do,  then?" 

"Nothing — don't  want  to  do  nothing." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  I,  and  opened  a  book 
for  myself.  Phil  threw  himself  on  the  floor,  and 
kicked  his  toes  idly  on  the  drugget. 

"Why  can't  I  play  with  your  chessmen?" 
he  asked,  apropos  of  nothing. 

"Because  you  left  two  in  the  garden  last 
time,  and  they  are  ivory — valuable." 

"No,  they're  not.     I  want  them,  Ruddy." 

"Well,  you  can't  have  them,  Phil." 

"But  I  want  them." 

I  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to  read. 
Phil  sat  up.  "  I  'm  going  home,"  he  announced. 
This  was  one  of  Olivia  Mary's  tricks  of  temper, 
which  Phil  would  never  have  originated  himself. 

"I'm  going  home,"  he  repeated. 

"Good-by!"  I  said  cheerfully,  turning  a  page. 

"Are  n't  you  sorry?"  he  asked  in  an 
astonished  tone. 

"Why?"  said  I  pleasantly.  He  rose  and 
walked  very  slowly  to  the  door,  his  eye  on  me, 
but  seeing  me  apparently  oblivious,  he  came 
back,  flung  himself  disconsolately  into  an  arm- 
chair, and  remarked: 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  209 

"I  want  your  chessmen,  Ruddy." 

"No,  Phil." 

"Then  I'm  going  to  climb  on  the  roof  of 
the  fowl-house." 

"You  mustn't  do  that,  old  man.  I  don't 
want  any  broken  arms  and  legs,  you  know." 

"But  I  want  to." 

I  made  no  answer,  and  then  he  spoke  again: 

"I'm  going  to,  Ruddy." 

"No,  you're  not!" 

"  I  'm  going — I  'm  going  now,"  moving  slowly 
to  the  door. 

"If  you  do,"  said  I,  exasperated  now, 
"you'll  know  what  to  expect." 

"What?"  said  he,  faintly  interested. 

"A  thrashing,"  said  I  recklessly. 

A  moment  later  I  looked  up,  and  he  was  gone, 
but  judging  him  to  have  gone  to  work  his 
ill-humor  off  on  Mrs.  Binks,  I  felt  no  anxiety, 
until  about  ten  minutes  later  I  heard  a  scream 
from  that  good  lady.  Flinging  my  book  down 
I  rushed  out  in  the  direction  of  the  scream, 
and  beheld  Phil  hanging  head  down,  from  the 
roof  of  the  fowl-house,  his  clothing  having 
luckily  caught  on  a  nail  and  so  prevented  a 
nasty  fall.  I  got  a  ladder  and  rescued  him 
from  his  somewhat  perilous  position,  and  having 
set  him  on  his  feet,  exclaimed: 

14 


210  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"You're  a  disobedient  young  rascal." 

His  small  mutinous  face  was  not  a  whit 
abashed. 

"He  wants  a  good  whipping,  that's  what," 
said  Mrs.  Binks,  agitatedly  shaking  him  to 
rights  in  his  small  'varsity  suit  — "you  naughty 
boy,  you." 

A  thought  struck  me. 

"A  very  good  idea  of  yours,  Mrs.  Binks," 
I  said,  and  cutting  a  switch  from  a  bush  close 
by  swished  it  through  the  air  suggestively. 
Mrs.  Binks  looked  anxious. 

"You  think  it  would  really  do  him  good?" 
I  continued. 

"Well,"  said  she,  nervously  pleating  her 
apron,  "in  a  manner  of  speaking,  so  to  speak, 
suppose  for  this  once  he  promises  — 

"We  must  be  firm,"  I  interrupted  judicially, 
"eh,  Mrs.  Binks?" 

She  fidgeted  uncomfortably.  Torn  between 
her  feeling  of  flattered  pride  that  I  should 
appear  to  defer  to  her  judgment,  and  her  very 
real  anguish  at  the  thought  of  Phil  chastised, 
she  was  in  a  painful  flutter. 

I  marched  my  small  culprit  to  the  house, 
and  into  the  dining  room,  and  closed  the  door. 

"Phil,"  said  I  solemnly,  "you've  been  very 
wicked." 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  211 

"Yes,"  said  he  without  a  tremor,  but  eye- 
ing the  switch  hard. 

"And  you're  sorry?"  I  said  hopefully,  quite 
meaning  his  admission  to  end  the  matter. 

"No!"  said  he  gravely. 

"Tell  me  you're  sorry,"  said  I,  "and  we'll 
say  no  more  about  it." 

"I'm  not,"  said  he,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"Now,  Phil,"  said  I,  wishing  myself  .well 
out  of  this,  "have  you  ever  had  a  hiding?" 

"Once  when  I  drawed  things  on  daddy's 
papers  he — he " 

"Gave  you  a  whacking?"  I  said. 

"No,  but  he  said  he  would  if  I  did  it  again." 

"Oh!  Well,  you're  sorry  about  your  dis- 
obedience. Come  now?"  I  said  persuasively. 

He  shook  his  fair  head  obstinately.  "No!" 
he  said. 

He  was  standing  before  me,  rather  pale  and 
big-eyed,  but  very  collected.  I  was  nonplussed. 

"See,  sonny,"  I  said.  "You  know  what  a 
bad  thing  it  was  to  do " 

A  knock  interrupted  us.  I  opened  the  door. 
Mrs.  Binks,  very  flushed,  was  standing  on  the 
threshold,  breathing  stormily. 

"You're  never,"  she  said,  a  mixture  of  plead- 
ing and  defiance  in  her  tone,  "going  to  beat  that 
little  feller,  an'  him  not  your  own,  so  to  speak?" 


212  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"Mrs.  Binks,"  said  I  with  dignity,  "discipline 
must  be  maintained,"  and  shut  the  door.  I 
made  one  last  appeal  to  Phil. 

"You're  sorry  for  what  you  did?" 

"No!"  The  murmur  was  almost  voiceless 
now.  The  steady  eyes  were  defiant,  the  faintly 
quivering  lips  set  hard.  I  was  at  my  wits' 
end  how  to  retire  with  dignity.  Needless  to 
say,  I  had  never  the  least  intention  of  using 
the  weapon  of  chastisement,  but  how  to  grace- 
fully get  out  of  the  business  without  leaving 
Phil  undisputed  master  of  the  situation,  I  did 
not  know. 

"Well,"  I  said  slowly,  "you  know  what 
happens  to  boys  who  won't  say  they're  sorry." 

I  was  restlessly  drawing  the  switch  through 
and  through  my  fingers,  and  at  that  movement 
I  saw  the  last  spark  of  hope  die  out  of  the  boy's 
eyes.  But  he  stood  up  like  a  little  soldier,  and 
at  a  sudden  movement  of  mine,  never  doubting 
the  hour  had  come,  advanced  and  held  out  a 
diminutive  palm  bravely.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  thus,  and  then  his  eyes  wavered  for  a 
moment,  and  he  said,  with  a  gulp: 

"An'  there's  the  lovely  v-vase  I  gave  you 
an' — an' — all  the  pipe  spillers  I  made  you." 

"Phil!"  I  cried,  and  the  switch  was  flung 
into  a  corner.  A  rush  of  color  crimsoned  the 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  213 

small  square  face,  and  a  rush  of  tears  drowned 
the  great  gray  eyes.  The  next  moment  he 
was  sobbing  on  my  shoulder,  declaring  he  was 
"sorry — sorry — sorry,"  and  he  loved  me.  The 
door  opened  an  inch,  closed  abruptly,  and  I 
heard  the  pad,  pad  of  list  slippers  going  down 
the  hall.  Ten  minutes  later  Phil  was  marshal- 
ing all  my  ivory  chessmen  on  the  doorstep. 
Later  on  Olivia  Mary  happened  in,  and  the 
two  children  "played  house"  under  the  pepper 
tree  with  the  cat  to  act  as  the  baby,  a  role  which 
that  very  wise  animal  refused  to  conform  to, 
escaping  out  of  Phil's  arms  and  taking  refuge  in 
the  pepper  tree,  with  Olivia  Mary's  diminutive 
handkerchief  still  tied  round  its  head  for  a 
baby  bonnet.  Phil  gazed  ruefully  at  sundry 
pink  scratches  on  his  wrist,  and  Tommy,  the 
cat,  peered  cautiously  down  through  the 
branches,  and  Olivia  Mary,  who  had  been  out 
shopping,  and  was  now  returning  with  some 
leaves  and  shells,  the  result  of  her  expedition, 
stamped  with  exasperation  at  finding  the  baby 
fled.  No  coaxing,  however,  would  lure  Tommy 
to  earth  again,  and  Phil  suggested  playing 
motor  cars.  The  two  of  them  made  such  an 
unconsciously  pretty  picture  on  an  up-ended 
wheelbarrow  that  I  stole  inside  for  my  camera, 
hoping  to  snap  them  unawares.  But  no  sooner 


214  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

was  Phil  in  a  favorable  position  than  Olivia 
Mary  was  not,  and  vice  versa,  so  I  was  obliged 
to  tell  them  what  I  was  about,  and  immediately 
self-consciousness  set  in. 

"Oh!"  cried  Olivia  Mary.  "L-let  me  run 
home  an'  put  on  m-my  s-silk  s-socks,  an'  my 
pale  b-b-blue  frock." 

"No;  you'll  do  just  as  you  are.  Now,  Phil, 
don't  look  so  like  a  wooden  image." 

"What's  a  woody  nimage?" 

"You  are,  just  at  present.  Sit  up  with  your 
hand  on  the  wheel,  as  though  you  were  really 
steering  a  car.  Olivia  Mary,  what  are  you 
wriggling  like  that  for?" 

She  was  smoothing  down  her  short  skirts, 
settling  her  hair  ribbon,  pulling  up  her  socks, 
and  generally  preening  her  plumage,  and  then 
she  turned  her  attention  to  Phil,  who  was 
innocently  ready  to  be  snapped  from  any  point 
of  view,  though  his  sock  was  down  over  his  shoe, 
and  his  tie  halfway  round  to  his  ear. 

"Phil  is  disgraceful,"  remarked  the  young 
lady  severely. 

1 '  Never  mind ! ' '  said  I .    "  Leave  Phil' s  jumper 
alone  and  stay  as  you  are.     There!     Capital— 
cap— ah,  Phil!     What  did  you  do  that  for?" 

"My  nose  was  tickling,"  remarked  Phil, 
rubbing  it  vigorously. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  215 

"Well,  we'll  have  another  shot.  Now,  don't 
move!  Olivia  Mary,  you  spoiled  that  one." 

"W-w-well,  Phil  was  hiding  my  new  shoes 
so  I  thought  I'd  put  them  in  the  f-f -front." 

"And  come  out  all  feet?" 

"Come  out  where?" 

"Never  mind,  you'll  do  nicely  now.  Now — 
one — two " 

At  this  precise  moment  Phil  spied  Mrs.  Binks 
at  the  kitchen  door,  and  turned  and  waved  a 
friendly  hand. 

"Come  on,  Binks,  quick,  come  an'  have  your 
photo  took .  Plenty  of  room — move  up  '  Li  via ! ' ' 

"For  the  Lord's  sake"  said  I.  "can't  you 
be  still?" 

"For  God's  sake,"  said  Phil  in  paraphrase, 
"can't  you  keep  still,  'Livy?" 

"Have  you  got  my  shoes  in?  An'  my 
ribbon  b-bow?" 

"You've  moved  again,  Phil,  you  little  duffer," 
I  cried. 

"Well,  I  was  only  stretching  my  legs.  I 
did  n't  think  it  mattered.  Hurry  up,  Ruddy, 
haven't  you  done  it?" 

"You  haven't  showed  us  the  bird,  yet," 
said  Olivia  Mary. 

"What  bird?"  said  I  irritably. 

"What  1-lives  in  the  little  b-box.     The  man 


216  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

at  the  photograph  shop  has  one  an'  it  whistles, 
b-but  I've  never  s-seen  it  yet." 

I  took  a  couple  of  snaps,  and  while  getting 
ready  for  a  third  Phil  suddenly  lost  interest 
in  the  proceedings,  and  strolled  away.  Olivia 
Mary  would  have  posed  for  a  week  with  pleasure. 
The  light  was  failing. 

"Here,  come  back,  Phil,"  I  cried.  "I  want 
to  take  another." 

"I'm  tired  of  that  game,"  said  Phil,  shaking 
his  head.  "I'd  rather  play  bears.  Let's!" 

It  was  hard  to  resist  Phil  when  he  said 
"Let's,"  his  big  eyes  alight  with  a  mixture  of 
entreaty  and  fun,  but  I  only  said: 

"Come,  I  want  to  take  you  in  the  barrow." 

With  a  bound  Phil  was  back,  under  the  mis- 
taken impression  I  intended  to  take  him  for  a 
barrow-ride.  When  the  ordeal  was  over  they 
both  wished  me  to  open  the  "box,"  as  they 
called  it,  and  show  the  pictures.  When  I 
explained  to  them,  they  were  both  disappointed, 
and  Olivia  Mary  was  chilling. 

"My  d-daddy,"  she  remarked,  "could  make 
p -pictures  in  a  minute  if  he  tried." 

"So  could  Ruddy,"  said  Phil,  instantly  on 
the  defensive,  "if  he  liked.  Couldn't  you, 
Ruddy?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  I,  "they  have  to  go 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  217 

through  certain  processes — er — I   mean— 

"How  do  they  get  through?"  asked  Phil 
interested. 

"Well,  I  mean  we'll  have  to  wait  a  few  days." 

"Why?" 

"To  get  'em  developed  and  all  that." 

"What  for?" 

"Run  away  and  play,"  I  said  tiredly. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  Binks  for  some  cake, 
I'm  so  hungry.  Binks,"  in  a  shout,  "I  want 
something  to  eat." 

"Come  along,  then,"  came  from  the  open 
doorway,  and  the  two  children  scampered  off. 

That  evening  Phil  coaxed  me  to  take  him 
to  "Paddy's  Market."  Saturday  night  at 
"Pad's"  is  the  greatest  delight  to  Phil,  and 
he  is  astounded  that  I  should  not  avail  myself 
of  the  exceptional  opportunities  offered  there. 
Time  and  again  has  he  urged  we  should  take 
our  pennorth  of  sausage  and  green  peas, 
smoking  hot,  or  an  appetizing  packet  of  hot 
"chips,"  liberally  peppered,  and  he  thinks  it 
plain  foolishness  on  my  part  that  I  don't  invest 
pennies  for  myself  and  him  in  slabs  of  pink 
ice  cream,  sandwiched  between  two  biscuits.  I 
have  never  yielded  to  his  solicitations,  however. 
There  is  a  fascination  in  this  big,  drafty,  garish, 
many-odored  market  of  the  poor  for  me  as  well 


2i8  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

as  for  Phil.  As  we  enter,  and  the  familiar  noises, 
sights,  and  smells  strike  upon  our  various  senses, 
Phil's  hand  tightens  on  mine  in  delight.  He 
never  tires  of  watching  the  men  and  boys,  and 
women  with  shawled  babies  on  their  knees, 
sitting  at  the  long  benches  eating  their 
"pennorths"  while  the  greasy-haired  "dago," 
in  his  shirtsleeves  is  kept  busy,  and  his  wife 
likewise,  in  fishing  up  from  the  depths  of  a  huge 
metal  can,  sausages  and  green  peas,  and  piling 
up  the  never-ending  stream  of  plates;  nor  of 
seeing  the  enormous  shallow  pans  of  sizzling 
fat,  in  which  the  potato  chips  simmer  and  turn 
a  delicate  golden-brown,  then  are  whipped  out, 
poured  like  sweets  into  a  rolled  up  paper,  and 
handed  across  to  the  waiting  customers,  after 
being  dosed  with  strong  black  pepper,  in  a  way 
to  make  one's  eyes  water  only  to  behold. 

Then  there  are  a  thousand  other  charms. 
Joy  to  squeeze  through  the  warm,  chattering, 
chewing,  loudly  dressed  crowd,  and  poke  the 
sleepy  parrots  in  their  cages,  and  to  linger  at 
that  fascinating  stall  where  the  most  lovely 
articles,  made  of  colored  beads,  painted  glass, 
shells,  and  plaited  straw,  are  going  so  cheaply, 
and  the  soda  fountain  with  its  nickel  taps,  which 
for  a  penny  will  yield  of  their  delectable  store 
and  gush  and  drizzle  a  semi- warm,  gaseous, 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  219 

ruby-colored  liquid,  dear  to  the  palate  of  small 
boys.  The  heat  and  the  clamor,  the  mingled 
cries  of  the  venders,  the  mingled  smells  of  old 
clothes,  boots,  overheated  humanity,  oranges, 
fried  chips,  sausages,  gas  escapes,  green  vege- 
tables, birds,  beasts,  and  sawdust  were  becoming 
a  little  too  much  for  me,  when  suddenly  Phil 
dragged  his  hand  from  mine,  and  darted  through 
the  crowd. 

Following  him,  I  perceived  he  was  making 
his  way  to  a  stall  of  green  vegetables,  where  a 
trim  little  figure,  with  a  trim  market  basket, 
was  turning  over  a  pile  of  cabbages.  It  was 
Miss  Ellis,  and  though  she  did  not  see  me, 
the  sudden  start  and  flush  with  which  she 
turned  at  Phil's  friendly  greeting  told  me  of  the 
little  sordid  tragedies  in  her  life,  which  drove 
her  to  market  here  among  the  very  poor.  I 
would  have  kept  out  of  sight  for  her  sake,  had 
not  Phil  hailed  me  in  his  hearty  young  voice. 

"Here,  Ruddy!  Ruddy!  Where  are  you, 
Ruddy?  Here 's  Miss  Ellis." 

To  silence  him,  I  stepped  quickly  forward 
and  lifted  my  hat.  The  little  Spinster,  still 
flushed,  bowed  primly. 

"She  was  buying  some  cavages,"  said  Phil. 
' '  Why  don't  you  buy  cavages,  Ruddy?  They  're 
very  nice  ones." 


220  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"By  Jove,  they  are!"  said  I.  "But  I 
have  n't  a  basket." 

"The  lady '11  put  them  in  paper,  won't  you, 
please?  "  he  added  politely  to  the  woman  serving. 

I  interposed  hastily  to  Miss  Ellis. 

"I  believe  you  get  the  pick  of  good  vegetables 
at  Paddy's." 

"You  get  them  cheaply,"  said  she  with  a 
sort  of  defiant  pride. 

"And  that's  a  consideration  that  appeals  to 
me,"  said  I.  "Let  me  take  your  basket, 
Miss  Ellis." 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said,  showing  it  bulging 
with  green  vegetables;  and  then  added, 
"Where's  the  little  boy?" 

Phil  was  missing,  but  in  a  short  time  we 
discovered  him  in  front  of  an  ice-cream  stall, 
absorbedly  gazing  at  a  small  girl  aged  about 
ten  or  eleven,  who  was  partaking  of  refreshment 
in  the  shape  of  pink  ice  cream  served  in  a  small 
cup-like  arrangement  with  fluted  sides. 

"This  is  Clara,"  said  Phil,  briefly  intro- 
ductory. 

Clara  seemed  clothed  in  a  series  of  misfits. 
Her  right  foot  was  encased  in  what  had  once 
been  an  elegant  button-up  boot,  in  which  three 
buttons  now  did  duty,  and  her  left  in  a  service- 
able boot  of  the  style  called  Blucher,  both  much 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  221 

the  worse  for  wear.  Her  skirt  did  not  match 
her  blouse,  and  her  hat  did  not  match  either. 
She  took  no  manner  of  notice  of  us,  being 
occupied,  except  that  her  eyes,  very  small, 
and  bright  as  a  bird's,  surveyed  us  steadily 
over  the  ice-cream  cup,  in  which  her  lower  lip 
and  most  of  her  chin  were  buried.  We  watched 
her,  fascinated,  while  with  admirable  thorough- 
ness, and  the  aid  of  a  very  prehensile  tongue, 
she  scraped  and  sucked  the  very  last  morsels 
out  of  the  cup,  and  then  very  solemnly  devoured 
the  cup  itself.  Phil  gasped.  "She's  et  the 
cup,"  he  cried  in  strong  excitement.  "Did  it 
hurt,  Clara?  Didn't  the  china  cut  your  froat?" 

"Wot  jer  givin'  us?"  said  Clara.  "'Taint 
china.  It's  meant  ter  be  scoffed."  But  as 
Phil  had  never  heard  of  an  edible  cup,  he  still 
continued  to  regard  Clara  with  wonder  and 
admiration. 

"Eat  another,"  he  said,  to  which  Clara 
responded : 

"Bloomin'  well  wish  I  'ad  the  charnst,  but 
I  ain't  got  another  penny." 

"What  would  you  do  if  I  gave  you  sixpence? " 
I  asked,  smiling. 

"Scoff  six  ice  creams,"  she  promptly  re- 
sponded, and  I  handed  it  over.  With  amazing 
celerity  she  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  I  was 


222  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

about  to  give  her  another  sixpence,  when  Miss 
Ellis  interposed. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  no!"  she  cried.  "Think 

of  the  child's  st .  I'm  sure  they  must  be 

harmful  in  such  quantities." 

"Garn!  I  could  eat  a  cartload.  They  won't 
do  me  no  harm,"  broke  in  Clara.  "They're 
bosker." 

But  not  wishing  to  have  juvenile  murder  on 
my  conscience,  I  compromised  by  buying  her  a 
box  of  chocolates  instead,  and  we  passed  on. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,  Phil,"  said  I.  Phil 
suggested  pictures,  and  I  invited  Miss  Ellis 
to  accompany  us.  This,  after  some  hesitation, 
she  agreed  to  do,  as  Phil  pressed  her  earnestly. 

"You  know,"  said  I,  "I'm  just  as  much  a 
boy  as  Phil  where  pictures  are  concerned" 
and  Miss  Ellis  admitted  that  she  found  them 
instructive  and  entertaining,  and  of  real  educa- 
tional value.  But  I  noticed  that  she  followed 
the  amazing  exploits  of  Nick  Winter  with  as 
much  interest,  and  laughed,  if  not  so  boister- 
ously, with  as  real  an  enjoyment  over  the  antics 
of  Foolshead  and  Tontolini  as  either  Phil  or 
myself.  And,  after  it  was  over  and  we  saw 
her  into  her  tram,  there  was  a  soft  color  on  her 
cheek,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  made  her 
look  ten  years  younger. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  WHICH    PHIL    AND    I    FIND    WOMEN  WANTING 

TN  the  weeks  which  followed  I  saw  Millicent 
from  time  to  time,  but  though  she  was 
gay  and  friendly  enough,  I  thought  I  detected 
a  difference,  a  subtle  constraint.  I  went  one 
Sunday  to  call,  and  found  a  young  man  there, 
apparently  on  quite  friendly  terms  with  the 
family,  for  whom  I  immediately  conceived  a 
violent  dislike  until  I  discovered  his  initials 
were  not  the  abhorred  ones,  when  he  seemed 
to  me  just  generally  tiresome  and  boring,  but 
harmless.  However,  he  did  me  a  service,  for 
a  brass  band  passing  by,  he  took  Phil  out  on 
to  the  balcony  and  so  left  me  a  precious  few 
moments  alone  with  Millicent.  After  a  few 
polite  skirmishings,  Millicent  said  with  a  pretty 
little  would-be  air  of  "by  the  way"  in  her 
tones:  "Oh,  Mr.  Lingard,  I  believe  I  am  to 
congratulate  you!" 

"On  what?"  said  I. 

"Well,  first  I  must  apologize  for  overhearing 
a  remark  not  intended  for  me,  but  your  friend, 
Mr.  Wimple- 

"Oh,  that!"  I  burst  out,  coloring  furiously. 
223 


224  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"You  must  let  me  explain — you  really  must — 
I  would  not  for  worlds  have  had  you  so  annoyed. 
It  seems " 

"Me  annoyed?"  cried  Millicent.  "Mr. 
Lingard,  whatever  can  you  mean?  Why  on 
earth  should  /  be  annoyed?  Why  ever  should 
you  think  it  necessary  to  explain  to  me?" 

There  was  a  soupcon  of  haughtiness  in  her 
manner,  and  her  cheeks  were  hot. 

"Why— why— "  I  muttered  abashed.  "I 
thought  you  might — it  seemed  a — an 
impertinence ' ' 

I  floundered  into  silence. 

"I  assure  you,"  she  said  smoothly,  "I  am 
very  pleased — very  pleased  indeed,  and  I  only 
hope  that  you  and — and   the  young   lady— 
Miss — Miss    Lee,   I   think   Mr.   Wimple  said, 
will  be  very,  very  happy." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  I  took  me- 
chanically. 

Miss  Lee!  I  sat  stunned.  She  had  not,  then 
recognized  Mr.  Wimple's  blunder  as  to  the 
name,  and  for  one  mad  moment  I  felt  actual 
relief  that  she  should  so  understand  the  posi- 
tion. Then,  next,  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  I 
cried  out: 

"Miss  Lee!  There  is  no  Miss  Lee.  I  don't 
know  any  Miss  Lee,  nor  wish  to.  He — Mr. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  225 

Wimple  meant — meant — you,  Miss  Lynn.  Oh, 
forgive  me  for  an  idiot!"  For,  too  late,  I  saw 
my  fatal  error. 

"Meant  me?"  she  cried.  "On  what  au- 
thority did  he  presume  to  refer  to  me  as — 
as — your  fiancee?" 

A  most  exquisite  blush  passed  in  a  rosy 
wave  right  up  to  the  pretty  soft  hair  on  her 
temples,  and  her  eyes  were  accusing. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  I  said  lamely. 
She  looked  at  me  severely. 

"It's  very  strange!"  she  said. 

"It  is,"  I  acquiesced  meekly. 

"Perhaps  he  got  it  from  Phil,"  she  remarked 
with  irony. 

"Perhaps,"  I  said  boldly,  "as  with  me — • 
for  he  took  a  great  fancy  to  you — the  wish  was 
only  father  to  the  thought." 

"But  still  farther  from  the  realization," 
she  retorted  smartly,  which  was  no  doubt  witty 
but  hardly  kind,  and  at  that  moment  that 
wretched  young  man  came  in,  with  Phil  cling- 
ing to  his  coattails. 

"They  was  blowing  on  about  'leven  crumpets, 
an'  a  great  big  drum!"  cried  Phil  excitedly, 
"an'  p'r'aps  if  we  go  now,  Ruddy,  we  might  be 
able  to  march  along  with  them." 

We  went,  but  needless  to  say  we  did  not 

15 


226  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

overtake  them,  though  we  saw  them  afar  off, 
their  red  coats  and  brass  fittings  twinkling 
through  a  cloud  of  dust,  small  boys,  and  yap- 
ping curs.  Phil  was  aggrieved  that  I  was  firm, 
and  declined  to  "run  just  a  little,"  which  I 
would  not  do  even  to  please  my  Fidus  Achates. 

After  this,  whenever  I  met  Millicent  I  felt 
the  chill  in  the  atmosphere.  It  seemed  to  me 
that,  in  her  resentment  at  the  thought  of  any 
undue  friendliness  on  her  part  having  given 
rise  to  the  idea  that  there  was  anything  between 
us,  she  took  pains  to  treat  me  with  special 
coldness,  and  I,  on  my  part,  anxious  not  to 
presume  on  the  mistake  for  her  sake,  refrained 
from  seeking  her  out  and  ceased  to  pay  her  the 
attentions  I  had  been  accustomed  to  do.  So 
we  "drifted  apart."  My  Sunday  visits  to 
Macquarie  Street  ceased  entirely,  and  though 
we  met  occasionally,  the  old  friendly  bond  had 
snapped. 

About  this  time,  too,  Olivia  Mary  made  a 
new  friend.  This  was  one  Elizabeth  Aschman, 
aged  seven  and  three  quarters,  chiefly  remark- 
able for  an  entire  but  temporary  absence  of  top 
front  teeth,  and  a  lively  imagination.  Elizabeth 
now  played  with  Olivia  Mary,  and,  according  to 
Phil,  they  walked  about  with  arms  round  each 
other's  necks,  whispering  things  about  him, 


MY   FRIEND   PHIL  227 

and  looking,  as  he  expressed  it,  "out  of  their 
corners"  at  him.  Sometimes,  too,  they  told 
him  to  "go  away,"  or  said  he  "could  n't  play," 
or  else  they  "played  house"  all  the  time,  and 
made  him  be  the  father,  while  they  took  all 
the  children  for  a  walk.  This  negative  role  did 
not  suit  Phil,  and  Elizabeth  and  Olivia  Mary's 
eternal  secrets  bored  him,  and  being  an  in- 
different speller,  Elizabeth's  habit  of  spelling 
things  she  did  not  wish  him  to  know  (and  some 
remarkable  effects  in  orthography  were  achieved) 
especially  enraged  him.  Therefore,  it  will  be 
seen,  we  were  thrown  very  much  upon  each 
other  for  company. 

Phil  had  another  friend,  doing  his  last  term 
at  the  "Kindergarten"  This  was  Reggie  Blair, 
who  was  nearly  nine,  and  possessed,  Phil  would 
have  told  you,  a  real  "string"  bat  to  play 
cricket  with,  and  could  bowl  over-arm,  and  had 
a  knife  with  a  corkscrew  in  it.  Phil  was  in- 
clined to  make  a  bit  of  a  hero  of  Reggie  Blair, 
and  I  perceived  dimly  that,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  this  rival  was  more  to  be  feared  than 
twenty  Olivia  Mary's.  Blair,  however,  being 
a  man  of  affairs  who  played  cricket  and 
"footer,"  and  didn't  care  for  "kids,"  but 
went  about  with  "big  blokes"  (all  Blair  idioms 
faithfully  quoted  by  Phil),  did  not,  as  yet, 


228  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

claim  an  undue  proportion  of  my  friend's 
time,  luckily  for  me,  and  one  Saturday  afternoon 
Phil  and  I  planned  to  have  a  dip  in  the  surf. 
As  a  promenade  Phil  loves  Manly,  to  stroll  up 
and  down  among  the  gay  crowds,  and  listen 
to  the  band  play,  or  sit  in  the  deck  chairs  and 
royally  hand  the  man  a  penny  to  ride  the  don- 
keys, when,  as  sometimes  happened,  donkeys 
were  there  to  ride,  and  to  watch  the  old  man 
that  modeled  sand-pictures.  But  for  surfing, 
real  fun  and  frolic  in  the  briny,  Manly  was  a  too 
fashionable  resort  for  us,  and  we  preferred 
Bondi  or  Coogee. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  we  chose  Coogee, 
and  arrived  early.  It  was  a  melting  hot  day, 
but  on  the  beach  there  was  a  crisp,  exhilarating 
breeze  blowing  that  cut  the  foamy  crests  from 
the  waves,  and  blew  the  sand  up  against  Phil's 
bare  knees.  And  how  blue  the  waves  were — 
ridge  beyond  ridge,  battalion  behind  battalion, 
snow-capped,  chasing  each  other  in  eternally, 
falling  on  the  yellow  sandslope  with  deep, 
regular  thunder,  spuming  and  foaming,  and 
curdling  and  creaming  up  the  beach,  and 
draining  back  again  in  a  grinding  churning 
back-wash  of  foam-bubbles  and  sand  and  shells. 
Phil  laughed  with  delight  as  the  wind  tossed  his 
thick,  uncovered  hair  into  bright  confusion. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  229 

"Quick,  Ruddy,  quick!"  he  cried,  as  though 
he  feared  the  sea  might  suddenly  take  it  into 
its  head  to  decamp.  We  picked  our  way 
through  a  number  of  sprawling,  half-clothed 
''sun-bakers,"  stretched  on  the  hot  sands  and 
burned  brown  as  mahogany,  and  so,  to  the 
dressing  sheds.  We  emerged  again,  clad  for 
the  cool  embraces  of  Neptune.  Phil  looked 
stunning  in  an  absurdly  small  neck-to-knee 
costume  of  blue,  with  white  facings.  We  ran 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  Phil  crowing  with 
glee,  but  there  I  paused  and  glanced  with  some 
disfavor  at  the  laughing,  screaming,  kicking, 
sprawling  crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children 
that  disported  themselves  in  the  roaring  surf, 
that  plunged  headfirst  into  breakers,  that  sat 
waist-deep  in  water  while  spent  waves  swirled 
around  them,  or  were  borne  resistlessly  shore- 
ward on  the  shoulders  of  some  mammoth  wave, 
in  a  wild  confusion  of  kicking  legs,  heads,  and 
arms,  all  shouting,  screeching,  gasping,  laugh- 
ing, while  two  dogs  on  the  water-line  added  to 
the  uproar  by  ceaseless  barking  and  scurrying 
up  and  down  in  senseless  excitement. 

"Come  on  in!"  cried  Phil,  plucking  at  my 
hand  impatiently. 

"It  looks  a  bit  thick,  Phil,"  I  said  doubtfully, 
and  glanced  along  the  beach.  Almost  at  the 


230  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

other  end  I  observed  a  solitary  bather,  evidently, 
like  myself,  disinclined  for  the  social  amenities 
of  the  surf.  Quite  in  sympathy  with  his  desire 
for  solitary  enjoyment  of  the  rare  delights  of 
surfing,  which  is  made  intolerable  by  the  sense- 
less mob  of  frenzied,  scrambling  humans  that 
infest  the  surf  from  morn  to  dewy  eve,  I  hesi- 
tated whether  to  thrust  my  probably  unwelcome 
company  on  him.  But  selfish  counsels  pre- 
vailed. Why  should  he  think  to  monopolize 
any  one  portion  of  the  ocean? 

"Come,  Phil!"  I  said,  and  with  his  little 
legs  racing  beside  my  long  ones  we  trotted 
along  the  firm  wet  sands  at  the  water's  edge, 
where  the  creamy  spent  wavelets  came  curling 
and  crisping  delightfully  round  Phil's  bare  toes. 
It  was  only  when  we  were  quite  close  to  the  spot 
that  I  discovered,  by  a  very  coquettish  scarlet 
cap  our  swimmer  wore,  her  sex.  I  stopped  in 
some  dismay,  but  Phil  had  already  rushed  into 
the  surf,  and  still  murmuring  my  right  to  any 
area  of  ocean  not  directly  occupied,  I  followed. 
The  girl  gave  one  quick  glance  over  her  shoulder, 
and  swam  away,  so  evidently  resentful  that  I, 
who  had  made  up  my  mind  to  give  her  a  wide 
berth,  was  nettled  and  swam  in  that  direction 
too,  in  mere  bravado.  Phil  was  dancing  crazily 
in  about  two  inches  of  water,  being  constantly 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  231 

bowled  over  by  playful  waves,  and  rising  again, 
his  face  radiant  with  fun. 

"Oo!  it's  loverly— it's  loverly!"  he  kept 
gasping. 

Then  I  made  a  discovery.  The  girl,  turning 
with  a  graceful  sweep  of  her  bare  white  arms, 
displayed  to  me  the  face  of  Millicent  Lynn. 

"Millicent!  Miss  Lynn!"  I  gasped,  and  being 
in  comparatively  shallow  water,  I  got  to  my 
feet.  She  did  the  same,  looking  distinctly  pro- 
voked, and  certainly  very  pretty  in  her  trim, 
smart  costume  and  scarlet  cap,  her  wet,  rosy 
face  and  pinky-white  neck  and  arms  glistening 
with  sea  water. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lingard?"  she  said 
discontentedly. 

Our  subsequent  conversation  was,  of  course, 
shouted. 

"I  say,  Miss  Lynn,"  I  cried,  "I'm  awfully 
sorry.  We  did  not  mean  to  intrude,  I  assure 
you.  I  hope  you  don't  mind?" 

"I  suppose  it 's  no  use,"  she  said,  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders  petulantly.  "Of  course  I  have 
no  right  to  monopolize  the  sea.  I  had  just 
swum  along  here,  hoping  for  a  little  privacy, 
and  it  does  seem  a  little  singular  that  even 
here " 

"You  find  the  inevitable  fly  in  the  ointment," 


232  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

I  interrupted  stiffly;  "but  Phil  and  I  can  soon 
rid  you  of  our  obnoxious  presence." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  answered.  "I  have  no  right 
to  forbid  you  this  portion  of  the  sea.  /  shall 
go.  I  can  finish  my  dip  later." 

Her  unreasonable  petulance  so  exasperated 
me  that  I  answered  coolly,  even  cheerfully: 

"Well,  yes,  perhaps  that  would  be  the  best 
arrangement.  As  you  say,  no  one  has  the 
monopoly  of  the  waves,  but  if  you  find  too  little 
room  for  three  here,  Phil  and  I  will  just  finish 
our  frolic,  and  you  can  come  in  again  later." 

She  started,  and  flushed  angrily. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  sarcastically.  "No! 
I  shall  certainly  not  leave  the  water  till  I  have 
quite  finished  my  swim,"  and  her  pretty  chin 
went  into  the  air  defiantly.  I  wanted  to  kiss 
her,  with  her  pretty  mutinous  face  all  wet  and 
rosy,  but  instead,  I  said,  with  as  dignified  a  bow 
as  I  could  compass  under  the  half -momentary 
impact  of  several  tons  of  salt  water  against  my 
form: 

"Just  as  you  please,  of  course." 

She  was  turning  away  haughtily,  when  Phil 
called  out: 

"Miller,  how  do  you  think  I  look  in  my  new 
neck-or-nothing?  It  cost  free-and-sixpence  at 
Hordern's." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  233 

Millicent's  face  softened.  She  could  never 
resist  Phil,  and  a  smile  dimpled  her  face  all 
over,  as  she  cried,  with  a  ripple  of  laughter: 

"You  darling ! — you  and  your  neck-or-nothing 
(I  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  it  was  really 
my  joke  quoted  by  Phil,  but  it  would  never 
have  won  a  smile  had  she  known),  you  look 
just  sweet." 

"An'  Ruddy,  too — does  he  look  sweet?" 

Our  eyes  met,  and  despite  ourselves  we  both 
burst  out  laughing,  to  hide  which,  she  instantly 
turned  away. 

"Come  an'  take  me  an'  Ruddy's  hands,  and 
let's  all  dance  in  the  water  an'  tumble  down 
flop!"  cried  Phil,  enticing.  "Come  on,  Miller, 
it's  such  bosker  fun." 

"Do!"  I  urged  boldly.  "It  would  be  — 
bosker!" 

She  looked  at  me  coldly. 

"I  can't,  Phil!"  she  cried  and  instantly  dived 
away,  floating  as  tranquilly  as  a  sea  bird  in  the 
trough  of  a  great  green  wave.  I  devoted 
myself  to  Phil.  We  ducked  and  dived  and 
tumbled,  and  shot  a  breaker — at  least,  I  did, 
while  Phil  watched  delightedly — and  we  let 
the  great  waves  hustle  us  shoreward,  and  it  was 
good  to  see  Phil's  face  radiant  and  dripping,  to 
hear  his  gasps  and  gurgles  and  chuckles  of 


234  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

enjoyment,  and  even  when  a  wave  suddenly  re- 
treated and  deposited  him  with  disconcerting 
force  on  the  hard-packed  sands,  his  face  lost 
its  smile  only  for  an  instant,  and  then  he  was 
again  wallowing  and  kicking  in  the  foamy 
smother.  Turning  suddenly,  I  saw  with  anxiety 
that  Millicent  had  foolishly  allowed  the  waves 
to  carry  her  beyond  a  point  which  I  considered 
safe,  but  she  was,  as  yet,  quite  serene  and  was 
adventuring  even  farther  out.  I  watched 
anxiously.  Rank  behind  rank,  the  magnificent 
surges  came  ceaselessly  riding  in,  with  monoto- 
nous thunder,  darkly  blue,  laced  with  foam,  and 
that  little  figure  all  alone  out  there,  with  its 
flash  of  scarlet  cap  and  gleam  of  white  up-lifted 
arms,  looked  pathetically  small  and  lonely, 
rising  and  falling,  appearing  and  disappearing 
in  that  immensity  of  dark  water.  A  sudden 
panic  seized  me,  seeing  her  so  helpless  yet  so 
fearless  in  the  grip  of  the  cold  merciless  seas, 
that  might  at  any  moment  snatch  her  away, 
and  toss  her,  their  sweet  broken  plaything,  far 
beyond  reach  or  aid. 

"Stay  there,  Phil!"  I  cried  briefly. 

The  girl  was  not,  in  reality,  very  far  from 
the  shore,  and  keeping  my  gaze,  as  well  as  I 
could,  on  the  bobbing  scarlet  cap,  where  it 
rode  bravely  high  on  a  wave  crest  or  sank  in 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  235 

the  hollow,  I  forged  my  way  to  her,  buffeted 
and  flung  here  and  there.  Reaching  her,  I 
shouted  over  the  thunder  of  the  surf: 

"Miss  Lynn,  it  is  not  safe  here.  Come 
nearer  shore!" 

She  shook  her  head  willfully,  and  there  and 
then  ensued  a  wrangle.  We  must  have  looked 
sufficiently  ridiculous,  buffeted  by  waves,  oc- 
casionally submerged  altogether,  our  words 
often  cut  from  our  lips  by  the  slap  of  racing 
waves,  shouting  at  each  other,  she  furious, 
and  I  grimly  determined,  my  hand  on  her  wrist, 
for,  finding  her  obstinate,  I  had  taken  the  law 
into  my  own  hands  and  was  firmly  piloting  her 
to  shore. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  cried  distinctly,  in  a 
lull  of  the  roaring  surf,  and  I  shouted  back,  as 
angry  now  as  she: 

"Because  I  dare  to  offend  you  rather  than 
face  your  father  if  I  did  not." 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried.  "No  man  has  ever 
dared " 

"No  man  has  ever  treated  you  so  before?" 
I  said  angrily.  "I  dare  say  not." 

"No  man  would,"  was  her  answer,  screamed 
in  my  ear. 

"D.  A.  would  not,  no  doubt,"  I  sneered, 
impelled  by  some  demon  of  foolish  spite. 


236  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"  Neither  D.  A.  nor  any  other  gentleman!1'' 
she  retorted,  and  then  in  an  instant  I  saw  the 
scarlet  anger  in  her  face  blanche  to  horrified 
fear,  while  her  staring  eyes  were  fixed  shoreward. 
"Phil!"  she  shrieked.  "He's  gone!" 
I  dropped  her  wrist  as  though  it  had  stung  me, 
and  struck  madly,  blindly,  through  the  smother- 
ing confusion  of  foam  and  broken  water,  now 
lifted  high  on  a  wave,  now  dropping  into  a 
hollow.  My  brief  glimpses  of  the  shore  showed 
it  empty  of  the  little  dancing  figure  I  had  left 
there.  And  at  that  instant  a  great  receding 
wall  of  water,  drawing  back  from  the  sands, 
flung  between  us  something  dark  and  small 
and  helpless.  We  both  made  a  frantic  clutch 
at  it,  but  the  treacherous  wave,  that  had  been 
his  playfellow,  whisked  it  away  from  us.  I 
was  after  it  as  swift  as  light,  and  though  it 
seemed  an  age  it  was,  in  reality,  not  a  second 
before  I  had  the  little  burden  in  my  arms. 
As  I  reached  shallow  water,  and  staggered  up 
the  beach,  my  knees  felt  weak,  and  trembled 
under  me  queerly.  I  sat  down  on  the  sand, 
but  the  yellow  sunshine  had  faded,  it  seemed; 
the  air  seemed  black  about  me,  and  cold;  and 
very,  very  far  off,  like  voices  in  a  dream, 
sounded  the  roaring  waves  and  shouting  surfers. 
I  was  conscious  only  of  something  in  my  side 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  237 

that  beat  and  pounded  with  sickening  force, 
and  filled  my  ears  with  dull  jarring  throbs,  and 
of  Phil's  little  warm  wet  body  pressed  close  to 
mine — Phil,  very  much  alive,  and  very  in- 
dignant, roaring  with  self-pity  and  rage,  the 
sweetest  of  music  to  me. 

"Why  did  n't  you  take  care  of  me,  Ruddy?" 
he  wept.  "You  said  you  'd  take  care  of  me,  and 
then  you  did  n't." 

"I  know — I  know,  little  chap!"  I  cried 
remorsefully.  "I  ought  to  be  kicked." 

"A  shark  might  have  etten  me,"  he  sobbed, 
and  a  sickening  vision  came  to  me  of  the  great 
Gray  Nurses  cruising  stealthily,  out  in  the  bay, 
with  their  long  evil  snouts  and  vicious  eyes. 

"Don't!"  I  cried  sharply.  "Oh,  Phil,  don't!" 
and  a  gasp  that  was  like  a  woman's  sob  took 
me  by  the  throat.  Then  beside  me  I  heard  a 
voice,  sweet,  tremulous,  contrite,  a  voice  with 
tears  in  it. 

"Don't  grieve  so!"  it  said.  "Please!  It 
was  all  my  fault!" 

I  had  forgotten  her  utterly,  but  I  was  angry 
with  her,  and  still  more  furious  with  myself, 
and  I  answered  coldly: 

"Nonsense!  I  am  entirely  to  blame  for 
allowing  a  woman's  folly  to  make  me  forget 
my  real  duty  for  an  instant." 


238  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

I  heard  the  little  sharp  intake  of  her  breath, 
and  felt  her  wounded  surprise,  as  though  I  had 
suddenly  struck  her,  and  the  rising  indignation 
which  she  bravely  mastered. 

"Yes,"  she  said  patiently;   "you  are  right— 
it  was  folly — and  obstinacy." 

I  was  considerably  mollified,  but  not  yet 
appeased,  and  her  pretty  unaccustomed  hu- 
mility, which  somehow  lent  her  a  sweet  new 
dignity,  only  made  a  prig  and  an  ass  of  me,  for 
thinking  to  improve  the  occasion  I  remarked 
sententiously : 

"If  only  you  women  would  realize  that  a  man 
acts  for  the  best  on  these  occasions,  and  not  for 
a  whim.  Of  course  I  do  not  blame  you  for  what 
occurred,  but  if  anything  had  happened  to 
Phil " 

"You'd  never  have  forgiven  me,"  she  sup- 
plied quickly  and  proudly,  and  receiving  no 
reply,  added  softly,  "nor  I,  myself,  indeed." 

She  knelt  suddenly  down  on  the  sands,  and 
held  out  her  arms. 

"Let  me  have  him,"  she  said  coaxingly, 
"just  a  moment  in  my  arms." 

But  I  made  no  movement  to  yield  him  up  to 
her,  and  when  I  looked  up  she  was  gone.  I  was 
my  normal  self  again  now,  and  was  feeling  once 
more  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  the  burning  sands 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  239 

on  my  chilled  limbs,  and  the  sunlight,  that  had 
been  a  shifting  jerky  glare  of  black  on  yellow, 
yellow  on  black,  had  now  settled  into  its  usual 
dazzling  flood  of  gold,  dancing  on  the  sparkling 
waves  and  glittering  sand  particles,  and  the 
steady  rhythmic  roar  of  the  surf,  and  the  cries 
of  the  bathers,  who  had  been  all  unconscious  of 
imminent  tragedy,  came  to  me  clearly. 

"Oh,  little  chap,  you  scared  me  badly,"  I 
whispered.  And  then  I  carried  him  to  the  dress- 
ing shed,  though  he  was  well  able  to  walk,  but 
I  felt  as  though  I  could  not  bear  him  out  of  my 
arms  yet. 

Later,  clothed,  and  in  our  right  minds,  Phil 
and  I  sat  on  the  beach  together;  Phil,  his 
sturdy  brown  legs  stretched  out,  was  drumming 
holes  in  the  soft  sand  with  his  heels  and  munch- 
ing buns.  He  had  quite  got  over  his  late 
adventure,  but  I  sat,  with  one  arm  round  him, 
thinking  over  the  affair  in  all  its  aspects.  And 
my  thoughts  ran  thus:  I  had  been  a  bit  of  a 
brute,  and  how  sweet  she  had  been.  She  had 
been  in  the  wrong,  no  doubt,  but  that  new  mood 
of  humility  sat  so  sweetly  on  her  that  I  must 
not  hasten  too  precipitately  to  assure  her  of  that 
forgiveness  which,  in  reality,  I  had  already 
extended  to  her.  She  would  come  presently, 
prettily  downcast  and  wistful,  like  a  child  in 


240  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

disgrace,  and  I  would  kindly  beg  her  to  think 
no  more  about  it,  nay!  would  do  the  thing 
handsomely,  even  hoping  I  had  not  been  too 
imperious  and  masterful. 

I  kept  my  eye  on  the  ladies'  inclosure,  but 
Phil,  having  wrested  my  walking  stick  from  me 
to  dig  holes  with,  now  landed  a  considerable 
quantity  of  sand  in  my  eyes,  and  when  I  had 
relieved  my  mind  on  the  point,  and  cleared  my 
vision,  she  was  already  standing  beside  us. 
She  looked  delightfully  fresh  and  cool  in  a 
seaside  frock  of  white  and  blue,  and  was  dainty 
and  trim  from  her  smart  little  sailor  hat  down 
to  her  small  white  shoes.  I  scrambled  up 
awkwardly,  lifting  my  hat,  but  she  passed  me, 
and  spoke  to  Phil. 

"All  right  now,  Phil?"  she  asked.  "You 
did  give  us  a  fright,  you  scamp!" 

"Yes,"  returned  Phil,  turning  his  bun  every 
way  to  find  a  favorable  spot  for  the  next  bite— 
"I've  been  drownded,  you  know,  but  I'm  not 
drownded  any  more  now.  Ruddy  saved  me. 
Ruddy  saves  every  one — don't  you,  Ruddy? 
He  saved  you  first,  Miller,  an'  then  me." 

"Saved  me?"  cried  Millicent.  "Oh,  no, 
indeed,  Phil." 

"He  was  saving  you,"  persisted  Phil,  "an' 
I  thought  I  'd  better  go  an'  help  save  you,  'cos 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  241 

we  like  you  berry  much,  Miller,  Ruddy  an'  me 
do,  don't  we,  Ruddy? — but  a  nasty  big  wave 
jumped  up  and  knocked  me  over,  an'  so " 

"Oh,  Phil,  Phil,  was  it  to  save  me?"  Milli- 
cent  was  down  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "  Dear 
little  boy — kiss  me,  Phil." 

Her  arms  were  round  him,  and  his,  with  half 
a  bun  clasped  in  a  sticky  fist,  tightly  round  her 
neck,  but  presently  he  fought  himself  free  with 
a  sigh,  and  took  a  large  bite  of  bun. 

"Don't  cry,  Miller,"  he  said  kindly.  "I'll 
give  you  a  bite  of  my  bun." 

"Miss  Lynn!"  I  said,  and  Millicent,  with 
rather  an  unsteady  laugh,  rose  and  faced  me. 
But  where  was  my  pretty  penitent,  low- voiced 
and  plaintive?  The  young  lady  who  faced  me 
was  very  cool  and  self-possessed,  with  steady 
dry  eyes,  and  a  faint  mocking  curve  to  her  red 
lips.  And  where  was  my  gracious  speech  of 
forgiveness  and  encouragement?  Instead,  I 
found  myself  idiotically  mumbling  something 
about  a  "rough  brute,"  and  "could  she  ever 
forgive?" 

And  she,  serenely  cool,  remarked  airily: 

"It  is  Phil's  forgiveness  we  should  both  ask 
for  our  shameful  neglect  of  him,"  and  with  a 
friendly  good-by  to  Phil,  and  a  cool  unembar- 
rassed nod  to  me,  she  passed  on.  I  stared 

16 


242  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

after  her,  seeing  my  visions  of  a  pretty  reconcilia- 
tion, tea  for  three  in  the  tea  rooms,  and  a  ride 
back  to  town  together,  vanish  into  thin  air.  I 
sat  down  beside  Phil  again,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"So,"    I   murmured,    "the  breach  widens!" 

"Say  beach,  Ruddy,"  corrected  Phil  kindly, 
"not  breach.  Even  the  littlest  boys  in  the 
Kindergarter  can  say  beach." 

I  was  silent  so  long  that  Phil,  nibbling  round 
and  round  his  bun,  in  ever-lessening  circles,  so 
as  to  preserve  to  the  last  the  bit  of  candied  peel 
on  top,  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Ruddy,"  he  asked  anxiously,  "do  you 
want  me  to  a' vise  you  again?" 

It  is  a  pleasant  fiction,  taken  quite  seriously 
by  Phil,  that  I  seek  his  advice  on  all  occasions. 

"Why,  yes,  old  man,"  I  answered,  "I'd  be 
glad  if  you  would." 

"Go on,"  said  Phil, with asigh, " I'm listenin'." 

"Phil,"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "suppose  you 
loved  some  one  very  much— 

"You  mean  Millicent,"  put  in  Phil,  calmly 
disdaining  subterfuge. 

"Well — er — Millicent,      or      another.      Say 
Millicent  for  argument's  sake."     I  fumbled  in 
my  speech  somewhat.     "Well,   if   you — er— 
loved  her — some  one,  very  much,  and  you  had 
hurt  her  without  wanting  to  at  all,  and 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  243 

"  If  you  mean  standing  on  her  toe  in  the  water, 
that  does  n't  count,  'cos  you  did  n't  mean  to. 
You've  often  trod  on  mine,  but  you  can't  help 
it,  your  feet  are  so  big,  Ruddy." 

"Thanks!"  I  said,  half  laughing,  half  exasper- 
ated. "But  that 's  not  the  kind  of  hurt  I  mean. 
I  mean  hurt  her  when  I  was  trying  to  be  kind." 

"Like  planting  her  in  our  garden?  But 
she's  all  dug  up  now,  every  bit." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  I  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  returned  in  surprise,  "don't 
you  bemember  we  planted  French  beans  there. 
Why  are  they  called  French?" 

"Because  they  can't  speak  a  word  of  English," 
said  I  absently. 

"Oh!  but  what " 

Scenting  a  string  of  interrogations,  I  inter- 
posed hurriedly: 

"But  what  would  you  do,  Phil?" 

"I'd  go  an  tell  her  I  was  sorry,"  said  Phil, 
who  was  becoming  very  bored,  "an'  then  if  she 
would  n't  love  me,  I  'd  go  an'  love  another  lady. 
Can  I  have  another?" 

"There  is  no  other,  no,  not  one,"  I  quoted 
gloomily. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is.  I  saw  you  put  the  bag  in 
your  pocket,"  said  Phil  instantly,  but  I  had  not 
been  thinking  of  buns. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN   WHICH   PHIL  AND   I   TAKE  TEA  IN  TOWN 

E  afternoon  Phil  and  Olivia  Mary  paid 
me  a  visit.  It  seemed  that  one  of  Eliza- 
beth's and  Olivia  Mary's  frequent  feuds  was 
on,  and  they  were  "not  speaking,"  and  so  the 
latter  had  fallen  back  on  Phil  for  company,  and 
he,  not  at  all  stiff-necked  about  it,  had  accepted 
her  return  gladly  enough,  and  brought  her 
over  to  me,  as  he  had  promised  to  help  me 
in  the  garden.  There  was  a  hot  wind  blowing, 
however,  and  though  it  seemed  to  affect  the 
children  little  enough,  I  was  disinclined  for 
strenuous  exertion,  and  sat  awhile  in  the  porch, 
smoking,  and  watching  the  youngsters  run 
about,  up  and  down  the  bricked  pathway,  which 
seemed  to  positively  ooze  ants  from  every  crack 
and  cranny.  The  trees  swirled  and  groaned 
uneasily  in  the  sultry  puffs  of  wind  that  were 
growing  steadier,  and  more  continuous,  like 
the  hot  breaths  from  an  opened  furnace,  and 
above,  a  hazily  yellow  sun  stared  with  a  brassy 
glare  from  a  deep  blue  sky,  over  which  raced 
great  white  masses  of  ragged  cloud.  Finally  I 
persuaded  the  energetic  ones  to  come  indoors 

244 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  245 

for  a  brief  spell,  as  I  had  no  mind  to  leave  them 
to  work  their  wicked  will  on  my  young  plants, 
and  I  was  feeling  hotter  than  was  comfortable. 
With  closed  windows  and  drawn  blinds,  it  was 
slightly  cooler  indoors.  I  lit  my  pipe  and  threw 
myself,  half -lounging,  on  the  couch,  and  with 
one  spring  Olivia  Mary  landed  in  the  hollow 
of  my  arm. 

"I'm  going  to  sit  by  Ruddy,"  she  announced. 

"It's  my  place,"  said  Phil,  flushing. 

"I  got  it  first— but!" 

"Luckily  I  have  enough  sides  to  accommo- 
date everybody,"  I  said  with  a  sigh,  "but 
personally  I  think  it  would  be  much  more 
comfortable  if  every  one  kept  his  distance." 

My  mild  hint  was,  however,  quite  lost  upon 
them,  and  they  coiled  up  on  either  side  of  me. 

"You're  a  naughty  girl,  Livy,"  said  Phil 
severely,  "and  God  does  n't  love  naughty  girls, 
does  he,  Ruddy?" 

"No!"  said  I,  dutifully. 

"Doesn't  He  love  me,  Ruddy?"  demanded 
Olivia  Mary. 

"Not  when  you're  naughty,"  said  I,  in  duty 
bound. 

'That  doesn't  matter,"  she  returned  philo- 
sophically, "not  a  bit.  Father  Christmas  will 
do  me." 


246  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

I  turned  away  my  head,  as  I  was  taken  un- 
awares by  such  a  candid  confession. 

Olivia  Mary's  imperturbable  self-satisfaction 
is  always  so  unanswerable.  Phil  opened  his 
mouth. 

"Tell  us  a- 

But  I  saw  what  was  coming,  and  tickled  him 
in  the  ribs  so  promptly  that,  between  gurgles 
of  laughter  and  squirms  and  wriggles,  the 
request  for  a  story  he  was  trying  to  formulate 
again  and  again,  never  got  past  "oo!  Ruddy 
tell  us — oh!  Ruddy — tell  us  a— oh!"  and 
spasms  of  laughter.  And  in  the  meantime 
Olivia  Mary  suggested  asking  riddles,  a  sug- 
gestion which  found  favor  with  us  all ;  with  me, 
because  it  seemed  a  peaceable  occupation,  that 
one  might  indulge  in  with  little  exertion.  Poor 
innocent ! 

"I'll  ask  f -first,"  said  Olivia  Mary.  "Made 
in  Germany — s-sold  in  York — s-s-stuff  a  bottle 
and  am  called  a — a — I  won't  tell  you  the  rest 
'cos  you'll  guess  too  easy.  What  is  it?" 

"What,  I  wonder! "  said  I,  with  a  mystified  air. 

"Something  you  put  in  b-bottles,"  she 
prompted. 

"Milk,"  I  said,  on  an  inspiration. 

"No!"  she  cried  with  scorn.  "Give  in?  It's 
a  cork,  of  course." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  247 

"Now  it's  my  turn,"  cried  Phil  impatiently, 
" forty  red  horses  on  a  white  hill — no!  forty 
white  horses  on  a  red  hill " 

"I  know  that,"  interrupted  Olivia  Mary 
instantly;  "it's  teef  in  your  mouf." 

Phil's  face  fell  so  grievously  that  I  said  to 
Olivia  Mary:  "Now  Phil  must  have  another 
turn  to  punish  you  for  being  so  clever,"  and 
Phil's  brow  cleared.  But  he  cogitated  so  long 
that  she  became  impatient,  "I  know  one, 
Ruddy — 1-let  me  say  mine  now,"  she  begged, 
but  Phil  came  to  light  suddenly. 

"Little  Miss  Etticoat  with  a  white  petticoat 
an'  a  red  nose,  longer  she  stands  shorter  she 
grows;  it's  a  candle,"  this  last  added  hurriedly, 
to  prevent  the  possibility  of  Olivia  Mary's 
interposing. 

"Pooh!  that  old  riddle!"  she  said.  "Any 
one  knows  that.  Wh-what's  a  difference  be- 
tween a  little  boy  an'  a  stamp — don't  you  say, 
Phil— on  a  letter?" 

"Various,"  I  said,  "a  stamp  does  not  kick  up 
a  terrible  row,  and  yell  like  a  Red  Indian,  nor 
ask  two  hundred  questions  in  half  an  hour,  nor 
ask  for  stories,  nor  jump  on  a  man's  chest  when 
he  wants  to  sleep  Sunday  afternoons,  nor " 

"That's  not  the  answer,"  said  Olivia  Mary, 
"will  you  give  in?" 


248  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"You  1-lick  a  stamp  and  put  it  on  a  letter, 
and  you  whip  a  little  boy — it's  a  naughty  boy, 
of  course." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  said  I. 

"An'  make  him  stand  in  the  c-corner — and 
now  I'll  ask  another.  Phil  asked  two  times." 

" I 'm  going  to  ask  one  now,"  said  I.  "When 
is  a  door  not  a  door?" 

This  is  positively  the  only  riddle  I  remember, 
because  of  my  utter  failure,  as  a  child,  to  com- 
prehend why  our  hall  door,  which  was  the 
particular  door  that  suggested  to  my  father's 
mind  the  asking  of  the  riddle,  should  be  likened 
to  a  jar,  or  anything  approaching  to  a  receptacle 
for  jam,  which  was  the  only  jar  I  knew.  Neither 
of  the  children  knew  the  answer,  and  when  I 
told  them  it  gave  Phil  an  idea,  for  when  his 
next  turn  came,  he  began  "When  is  a  -  '  his 
eye  roved,  but  lighting  on  me  became  illumi- 
nated- "pipe  not  a  pipe?"  he  concluded 
triumphantly. 

"When  it's  alight,"  I  said,  pleased  with  my 
smartness. 

"No,  will  you  give  in?" 

"I  w- won't,"  cried  Olivia  Mary.  "When 
it 's  a  weeny  cigarette  with  a  g-gold  b-band  like 
daddy  s-smokes." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  249 

Phil  shook  his  head  gleefully. 

"Give  in?"  he  repeated,  pummeling  me  out 
of  pure  lightness  of  heart.  Finally  we  con- 
sented to,  and  he  said  instantly: 

"When  it's  a  jar.  I  made  that  one  my  own 
self.  Is  n't  it  a  bosker  one? " 

"Huh,  you  c-c-copied  that  one!"  said  Olivia 
Mary.  "Now,  I'll  make  one.  What's  the 
difference  of  a  cake  of  soap,  an'  a  cake  with 
plums  in  it?" 

"All  the  difference,  I  should  say,"  I  remarked. 

"That's  not  right,"  she  returned,  "you  can 
eat  the  plum  one,  but  you  can't  eat  the  soapy 
cake.  Now  I'll  say  another.  What's " 

"What's  the  difference — I  started  first — " 
cried  Phil,  but  Olivia  Mary  cut  in. 

"What's  the  difference  of  a  table  an'  a  chair? 
Will  you  give  in?  'Cos  you  sit  on  a  chair  and 
you  don't  on  a  table." 

"Ruddy  does,"  objected  Phil. 

"He's  not  ladylike,  then,"  returned  Olivia 
Mary  primly.  "My  nurse  says  so.  I'll  ask 
another  riddle." 

"No,  I  will!     Can't  I,  Ruddy?" 

"It's  my  t-turn— well!" 

"What's  the  difference '  shouted  both 

children  simultaneously,  but  at  this  I  rose,  a 
child  under  either  arm,  and  bore  them  kicking 


250  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

and  laughing  down  the  hall,  and  handed  them 
over  to  Mrs.  Binks. 

"That's  enough!"  I  cried.  "Give  'em  some- 
thing to  eat,  please,  Mrs.  Binks,  and  not  a  child 
is  to  come  near  me  for  at  least  half  an  hour. 
I'm  going  to  have  forty  winks." 

"Pooh!  I  can  do  that,"  shouted  Phil,  and 
began  blinking  rapidly,  "you  count,  Livy!" 
I  shut  the  kitchen  door,  and  made  good  my 
escape.  I  threw  myself  on  a  couch,  where  I 
lay  idly  watching  the  smoke  rings  rise  and 
delicately  thin  to  blue-white  wisps  and  shreds 
in  the  air.  Gradually,  out  of  the  pearly  haze, 
peeped  a  face  I  knew,  arch,  charming,  smiling. 
It  nodded  at  me,  approached,  came  closer, 
closer,  then  receded,  fading,  fading,  and 
vanished  away.  I  awoke,  hearing  the  sharp 
peal  of  the  doorbell,  followed  by  the  rush  of 
the  children's  feet  up  the  hall.  There  followed 
the  usual  wrangle. 

"Let  me  open  it,  Phil.     I-I  got  here  f -first." 
"I  know  how  to  open  it  better 'n  you." 
"It's  1-ladies  first.     M -mother  says  so." 
"Gentlemens  always  open  doors  for  ladies." 
This  I  thought  very  clever  of  Phil,  as  I  got 
to  my  feet  leisurely  and  strolled  into  the  hall. 
The  bell  was  sounding  an  almost  continuous 
peal,  and  Olivia  Mary  and  Philip  were  both 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  251 

hanging  on  to  the  handle  of  the  door.     From 
without  came  a  small  insistent  voice. 

"Open  the  door  at  once!" 

Phil  put  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole. 

"Who's  there?"  he  breathed. 

"It's  me,"  returned  the  voice. 

"It's  'Lizabeth,"  exclaimed  Olivia  Mary, 
and  by  a  strategic  movement  got  possession  of 
the  door  handle,  and  the  next  moment  Miss 
Elizabeth  Aschman  strolled  into  my  hall.  I 
had  met  her  several  times,  but  this  was  the  first 
occasion  on  which  she  had  honored  my  poor 
abode. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Aschman,"  I  said, 
and  she  put  a  small,  limp,  somewhat  sticky 
hand  in  mine. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you!"  she  returned. 

Miss  Aschman  is  always  so  correct  that,  no 
doubt,  in  the  circles  in  which  she  moves,  this, 
though  irrelevant,  is  the  rejoinder  polite,  pre- 
supposing, as  is  natural,  that  one's  friends  are 
going  to  be  civil  enough  to  inquire  after  one's 
health. 

-"What  d'you  come   for?"   inquired    Olivia 
Mary  bluntly. 

"My  mother  said  you  could  come  to  tea  if 
your  mother  would  let  you." 

"Am  I  allowed?"  asked  her  friend  eagerly. 


252  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Yes;  your  mother  told  me  you  were  playing 
at  Phil's,  and  Phil's  Beenie  told  me  you  and  him 
were  here." 

"All  right!  I'll  come,  then,"  said  Olivia 
Mary.  "Good-by,  Ruddy." 

These  dear  women,  who  can  forget  their  feuds 
so  promptly — be  daggers  drawn  all  morning, 
and  bury  the  hatchet  in  afternoon  tea  and 
scones  at  three  o'clock! 

"Can't  I  come,  too?"  asked  Phil  wistfully. 

"No,"  returned  Miss  Aschman  promptly, 
"you  can't.  You're  only  a  boy." 

The  accident  of  sex  seemed  so  inadequate  a 
reason  that  he  said  hopefully: 

"I'll  play  father  an'  mind  the  house." 

"No,  you  can't  come,  Phil,"  said  Olivia  Mary. 
"Come  on,  'Lizabeth.  We  don't  want  him, 
do  we!" 

I  started  to  speak,  thought  of  the  hot  blast 
permeating  the  out-of-doors  world,  and  sighed 
irresolutely,  but  Phil's  disconsolate  face  smote 
me. 

"Never  mind,  Phil,"  I  said,  "you  and  I  will 
go  down  to  town  and  have  tea  at  the  A. B.C." 

Phil's  face  beamed  radiantly,  and  Olivia  Mary 
looked  thoughtful. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  think  I'd  like  that  b-best. 
I  can  go  to  your  place  another  day,  'Lizabeth." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  253 

"Oh,  we'll  all  go  with  Mr.  Lingard,"  said 
Elizabeth  sociably. 

"No,"  said  I,  cruelly  enjoying  the  turn  of 
the  tables,  "we  don't  want  you.  You're  only 
girls — so  run  along." 

"Once,"  said  'Lizabeth  dreamily,  "a  gentle- 
man" (all  Miss  Aschman's  acquaintances  are 
ladies  and  gentlemen)  "took  me  to  tea  at  the 
A. B.C.,  and  I  had  fifteen  cakes  an'  two  ice 
creams." 

"Did  you  eat  them  all?19  asked  Phil,  awe- 
stricken. 

"Yes;  and  after  we  went  to  the  Fresh  Fooda 
Nice,  and  I  had  some  more." 

"How  many?"  asked  Phil  breathlessly. 

"Oh,  'bout  six  or  seven!"  returned  she 
airily. 

"Were  you  littler 'n  you  are  now?"  pursued 
Phil,  gazing  in  wonder  and  awe  at  ' Lizabeth 's 
slim  proportions. 

'  'Bout  the  same,"  she  answered  imperturb- 
ably,  and  Olivia  Mary  observed: 

"Once  I  went  to  the  Civil  Servers,  I  did." 

"Is  this  your  droring  room?"  inquired 
Elizabeth  of  me,  but  as  usual  Olivia  Mary 
saved  me  the  trouble  of  replying. 

"No!"  she  said  volubly.  "He  hasn't  got  a 
draw'n  room.  He's  only  g-got  this,  an'  two 


254  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

b-bedrooms  an'  Mrs.  Binks',  an'  a  k-k-kitching, 
an'  a  b-bathroom." 

"He's  got  a  nice-chest,"  said  Phil,  instantly 
on  the  defensive. 

"We've  got  three,"  said  Elizabeth  crushingly, 
a  statement  I  had  every  reason  to  discredit. 

"Oh,"  said  Phil,  slipping  a  consoling  hand 
in  mine,  a  habit  of  his  in  moments  of  mortifica- 
tion for  me  that  so  endears  him  to  me,  "we 
don't  want  more'n  one — we  wouldn't  have 
enough  food  to  put  in  three,  would  we,  Ruddy?  " 

"We  always  have  heaps  of  food,"  said 
Elizabeth. 

"So  do  we,"  chimed  in  Olivia  Mary. 

At  last  we  got  rid  of  them,  and  sallied  out. 
The  streets  were  hot  and  dusty.  Miniature 
whirlwinds  of  straw  and  dust,  and  odds  and  ends 
of  papers,  eddied  and  spiraled  here  and  there, 
and  the  sultry  breathing  wind  sprang  out  on  us 
from  every  corner,  with  a  hot  noisy  sigh.  Phil, 
too,  was  rather  trying,  for  it  seemed  he  had 
registered  a  vow  to  touch  every  veranda  post 
we  passed,  so  great  was  his  care  to  do  so.  I 
felt  limp  and  sticky  and  grimy,  and  rather 
regretful  of  my  good-natured  impulse.  But 
once  in  the  cool,  spacious  tea  room,  with  its 
white  tables  and  its  flowers  and  its  electric  fans, 
or  "windmills,"  as  Phil  called  them,  spinning 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  255 

round  like  quivering  vortices  of  air  made 
visible,  I  relaxed.  It  was  pleasant  to  watch 
Phil  sucking  through  a  straw  some  sweet 
sticky,  ruby-colored  compound,  in  which  a 
lump  of  ice  clinked  musically  against  the  glass. 
I  had  no  ice  in  my  squash,  but  Phil  had  asked 
for  a  piece,  and  when  the  girl  had  said  rather 
tartly  that  ice  was  not  included  in  what  she 
called  the  "mee-new,"  he  had  said  so  sweetly, 
"I  don't  mind  a  bit;  I'd  like  a  little  piece, 
please,"  that  she  had  suddenly  relapsed  into 
smiles,  and  fetched  him  some. 

He  made  the  drink  last  as  long  as  possible,  for 
the  pleasure  of  drinking  through  a  straw,  and 
told  me  confidently  that  when  he  had  finished 
it  he  was  going  to  eat  his  lump  of  ice.  He 
was  immensely  surprised  to  find  there  was  no 
ice,  and  looked  carefully  at  the  bottom  of  his 
glass,  wondering  audibly  if  the  girl  had  taken  it 
out  when  he  was  n't  looking. 

"Why  is  it  rude  in  a  house  to  drink  through 
a  straw  an'  not  rude  here?  "  he  asked.  "  Beenie 
won't  never  let  me  drink  my  tea  that  way." 

Then  he  ordered  a  strawberry  ice  when  the 
girl  appeared. 

"Strawberry  ice  off,"   she  answered  glibly. 

"Did  you  drop  it?"  he  asked  with  concern. 
"I  s'pose  it's  all  dirty,  then." 


256  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

I  explained,  and  he  was  accommodated  with 
a  vanilla  ice. 

He  gasped  with  mingled  cold  and  ecstasy 
through  a  generous  glassful,  and  nibbled  at 
his  pink  wafer  biscuits,  and  then,  the  inner 
man  satisfied,  he  leaned  back  and  kicked  the 
table  leg  while  he  surveyed  the  groups  at  the 
other  tables.  There  was  a  fair  sprinkling, 
and  the  band  happened  to  be  playing,  and  the 
heart  of  Philip  was  content.  But  suddenly 
he  said  to  me: 

"Why  don't  we  never  see  Miller  any  more? 
I  like  Miller  ever  so  much.  I  miss  her." 

"Hear,  hear!"  I  cried  softly. 

"Where?"  asked  Phil,  turning  right  round  in 
his  chair,  and  adding  rather  reproachfully: 

"Was  that  a  story,  or  only  having  fun?" 

"Phil,"  I  said  earnestly,  for  a  tremendous 
idea  had  struck  me,  "you'd  like  to  see  Miller 
again?" 

"Yes — an'  I'd  love  to  see  her  dog." 

"Suppose,"  I  said  wheedlingly,  "you  write 
her  a  letter." 

It  seemed  that  Phil  did  not  want  to  see  her 
quite  so  much  as  all  that. 

"You  write  it,"  he  said.  "I  writ  the  last. 
It's  your  turn." 

"But  I've  a  bone  in  my  finger,"  I  objected. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  257 

"Binks  has  one  in  her  leg.  Does  it  hurt 
most  in  your  finger  or  in  your  leg?" 

"In  you  ringer,"  I  said  promptly,  "when 
you  have  a  letter  to  write." 

"But  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  objected 
Phil. 

"Say  we're  sorry,  and  won't  do  it  again," 
I  prompted. 

"But  I'm  not — I   haven't  done  nothing." 

"Well,  I  am— awfully!" 

"Then  you  write  it." 

However,  I  bribed  Phil  to  write  the  letter 
after  we  got  home.  It  was  in  his  words,  but  at 
my  instigation.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  re- 
straining him  from  telling  her  that  "Ruddy 
told  me  to  say"  this,  that,  and  the  other.  It 
was,  in  brief,  an  intimation  that  we  would  so 
much  like  to  see  her  again,  that  on  such  an 
afternoon  we  would  be  at  the  tea-kiosk  in  the 
Gardens,  and  how  we  wished  she  would  also 
be  there,  and  we  were  "her  loving  little  friend, 
Phil,"  followed  by  several  crosses. 

After  that  we  went  out  and  sat  in  shirtsleeves 
on  the  back  porch.  The  sun  had  set  in  a  haze  of 
dusty  gold,  but  the  heat  still  held.  There  seemed 
to  hang  in  the  air — stagnant  now,  save  for  fitful 
lukewarm  gusts  that  shook  the  limp-looking 
pepper  trees  like  the  expiring  respirations 

17 


258  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

of  a  dying  monster — a  dim  yellow  haze. 
It  was  the  dust,  raised  in  clouds  by  the  hot 
wind,  and  slowly  settling  again.  A  cicada  with 
a  note  like  a  steam  siren  was  shrilly  rasping 
in  the  garden,  and  the  busy  ants  were,  as  ever, 
up  and  doing.  The  last  fitful  puff  of  wind  sub- 
sided, and  the  stillness  of  the  sultry  air  could  be 
felt.  There  was  a  hush — a  pause.  Earth  was 
waiting — man  was  waiting — expectant  of  the 
blessed  wind  from  the  south  that  would  soon 
pour,  cool  and  fresh  and  life  giving,  down 
upon  the  gasping  city.  And  at  last  it  came. 
There  was  a  sudden  joyful  rustle  of  life  in  the 
motionless,  hanging  leaves  of  the  dust-laden 
trees  that  communicated  itself  to  the  tiniest 
twig  and  leaflet  and  died  away ;  within  the  house 
a  door  banged — another  and  another,  a  canvas 
shelter  began  to  belly  and  flap,  and  with  a  rush 
and  a  swirl  the  "southerly"  was  upon  us, 
bending  and  tossing  the  branches,  and  streaming 
about  us  with  delicious  coolness,  like  a  wave  of 
pure  flowing  water. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN   WHICH   PHIL  AND   I   BLOW   BUBBLES 

TT  was  a  day  or  two  later  that  Phil  brought 
me  Millicent's  answer.  I  had  rushed  home 
for  a  hasty  lunch  before  going  out  to  Lewisham 
on  business,  and  was  in  the  midst  of  it  when 
Phil  arrived.  When  I  saw  a  pale  lavender- 
colored  envelope  in  his  hand  I  laid  down  my 
knife  and  fork,  my  nicely  browned  cutlets 
suddenly  losing  their  savor,  but  I  read  the 
letter  with  outward  composure.  It  ran: 
"DEAR  PHIL, 

"I'd  love  to  see  you  again,  but  I  cannot 
possibly  come  to  the  Gardens  as  suggested 
(underlined).  You  know  the  way  to  Mac- 
quarie  Street,  and  Gyp  and  I  will  be  delighted 
to  give  you  tea  any  afternoon  you  can  come. 
Get  your  nurse  to  bring  you. 

"Your  friend, 
"MILLER." 

"P.S.  —  Next  time,   I'd  like  a  little  letter 
just  from  yourself." 

In  the  postscript  lay  the  sting  for  me,  though 
Phil  was  innocent  of  it. 

"We'll  go  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  prompt 
as  ever. 

259 


260  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"But  I'm  not  invited,"  I  said  despondently. 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  bit,"  he  returned 
cheerily;  "when  I'm  not  invited  I  just  go,  and 
then  I  'm  there,  you  see,  and  Miller  always  has 
plenty  cakes,  so  there'll  be  enough  to  go  round." 

But  when  I  had  persuaded  him  that  I  really 
could  not  go  under  the  circumstances,  he  stoutly 
declined  to  go  also,  like  the  loyal  comrade  he 
is.  Finally  we  obtained  permission  for  Phil 
to  accompany  me,  and  we  dashed  into  a  tram, 
and  buzzed  and  clanged  away  up  to  the  Central 
Railway  Station.  This  is  always  a  vastly 
fascinating  place  to  Phil,  the  huge,  drafty, 
glass-domed  barn  it  is,  with  its  many  platforms, 
its  bookstalls,  penny-in-the-slot  machines,  and 
refreshment  stalls,  and  the  buzz  and  chatter 
and  clatter  of  hurrying  crowds  coming  and  going, 
and  here  and  there  a  brave  green  palm  growing 
sturdily  between  the  gleaming  network  of  rails, 
in  a  foreign  environment  of  smut  and  dust  and 
steam  clouds  from  the  snorting  engines. 

Inside  the  carriage,  Phil,  after  narrowly 
escaping  jammed  fingers  in  letting  down  the 
sun  screen,  looked  as  usual  for  something  to 
count  or  spell.  It  was  not  a  "smoker,"  out  of 
deference  to  Phil's  tender  years,  and  there 
was  but  one  notice,  which  read  in  large  letters: 

"DO   NOT   SPIT.      PENALTY  £2." 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  261 

"It  says  that  everywhere,"  said  Phil,  running 
his  finger  along  a  dusty  slat  of  the  screen  and 
alluding  to  the  prohibition,  by  which  a  paternal 
government  designs  to  check  the  spread  of 
disease.  "It's  in  the  trains  an'  the  trams  an' 
the  boats  an'  the  streets.  They  should  have  put 
one  in  the  place  what  the  Spitting  Camel  lives 
in,  and  then  it  might  stop." 

Just  then  the  train  started  with  a  jolt  and  a 
rumble  and  a  creaking  of  coupling  chains,  and 
Phil,  being  flung  with  some  violence  back  into 
his  seat,  occupied  himself  with  staring  out  of 
the  window  at  the  incomparably  mean  and 
grimy  hovels  of  Redfern  and  its  purlieus,  and 
at  the  huge  yard  where  the  engines  live  when 
they  are  not  at  work — great  sooty  monsters 
without  so  much  as  a  brilliantly  polished  copper 
bonnet  to  relieve  their  somberness. 

A  very  engaging  girl-baby,  aged  about  two, 
made  violent  love  to  him  on  the  return  journey, 
leaning  against  his  knees  and  endeavoring  to 
put  her  two  fat  little  arms  about  his  neck  and 
force  a  rather  damp  and  nibbled  segment  of 
sponge  cake  into  his  unwilling  lips. 

"Nice  boy — nice  boy,  Baba's  cake,"  she 
murmured  with  much  blandishment.  But  Phil 
held  himself  aloof  stiffly.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
that  at  this  stage  it  is  lovely  woman  who  makes 


262  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

the  advances,  and  man  who  is  coy,  while 
later  the  positions,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  seem 
reversed.  Phil  repulsed  his  admirer  as  gently 
as  he  could,  edging  up  to  me,  very  red  in  the 
face,  turning  persistently  away  from  the  sponge 
cake. 

"I  don't  know  her,  Ruddy,"  he  whispered  to 
me,  very  uncomfortably. 

"Nice  boy!"  babbled  the  shameless  one. 
"Tiss  Baba!"  and  put  up  a  most  tempting  pair 
of  lips. 

"Kiss  her!"  I  said  to  Phil,  nudging  him. 

"No,"  he  said  doggedly;  "I  don't  know  her." 

He  evidently  considered  these  liberties  most 
unwarrantable  on  the  part  of  an  utter  stranger. 

"Never  mind!"  I  said.  "She's  such  a  jolly 
kid.  Waive  ceremony  for  once." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  do  it,"  he  said  stiffly, 
and  in  mercy  to  his  embarrassment  the  baby's 
mother,  who,  with  a  companion,  had  been 
convulsed  with  mirth,  called  her,  a  summons 
to  which  she  paid  no  heed,  having,  not  un- 
"assisted  by  me,  hauled  herself  on  to  the  seat 
beside  Phil,  where  she  sat  pleased  and  proud, 
bestowing  amorous  glances  on  the  unwilling 
one.  When,  at  her  destination,  she  was  torn 
from  him,  she  rent  the  air  with  her  wails,  and 
we  could  hear  her  on  the  platform  protesting 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  263 

tearfully,  "Want  nice  boy — more  nice  boy." 
For  a  long  time  Phil  kept  silence  as  we  flashed 
by  the  stations  with  their  dazzlingly  sunny 
platforms,  green-painted  seats,  and  garden  plots 
bright  with  flowers,  but  by  the  time  we  reached 
home  he  was  his  loquacious,  interrogative  self 
again. 

Next  day  happened  to  be  my  birthday,  and 
Phil  arrived,  bright  and  early,  so  early  that  I 
was  still  engaged  with  the  mysteries  of  my 
toilet,  shaving  in  the  bathroom. 

Phil,  having  learned  ^  of  my  whereabouts, 
burst  in  upon  me  without  ceremony,  but  recol- 
lecting his  manners,  dashed  out  again  without 
a  word,  slammed  the  door,  knocked  hastily, 
and  without  waiting  for  a  summons,  reentered. 
Under  his  arm  he  carried  a  brown-paper  parcel, 
untidily  wrapped  and  insecurely  tied,  of  which 
I  was  elaborately  unconscious,  such  being  the 
prescribed  etiquette  in  such  cases. 

"I've  got  a  present  for  you,"  Phil  announced 
beaming,  and  as  I  affected  pleased  surprise,  he 
added,  "Guess  what  it  is." 

I  shook  my  head,  and  he  prompted: 
"Something  what  you  put  on  your  feet." 
Now  the  shape  of  the  parcel,  to  say  nothing 
of  a  large  green  and  purple  carpet-heel  pro- 
truding from  the  paper,  and  the  sundry  hints  I 


264  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

had  received  during  the  week,  might  have  led 
a  cleverer  man  to  guess,  but  I,  with  incredible 
obtuseness,  hazarded: 

"A  pair  of  socks"  (though  anything  less  like 
a  pair  of  socks  I  had  never  seen) .  Phil  loved  to 
keep  one  guessing,  and  it  was  only  his  impatience 
on  this  occasion  that  led  him  to  untie  the 
parcel  at  once  and  display  to  my  admiring 
gaze  a  huge  pair  of  bright-hued  slippers,  that 
were  surely  designed  in  Brobdignag. 

' '  There ! ' '  said  he,  with  pride.  ' '  Are  n't  they 
bosker?  They  cost  2s.  nd.,  and  I  asked  the 
man  for  the  biggest  in  the  shop.  Two  shillings 
an'  'leven  pence  is  a  good  lot  of  money,  is  n't 
it?  Do  you  like  them?" 

"Rather,"  I  assented  heartily,  wondering 
how  I  was  going  to  keep  them  on  my  feet. 

"I'm  a  kind  boy  to  you,  Ruddy,"  continued 
Phil.  "Beenie  helped  me  choose  them.  You 
know  I  wanted  to  buy  you  a  billiard  table, 
'cos  you  said  you  wished  you  had  one,  but  the 
man  said  he  had  n't  any  in  his  shop,  an'  he 
thought  you'd  like  slippers  best." 

"So  I  do,"  I  said  stoutly. 

"But,"  he  said,  a  little  despondently,  "you 
can't  have  a  good  game  with  red  and  white 
balls,  and  a  stick,  with  just  slippers." 

"But  when  my  feet  are  cold  and  tired,"  I 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  265 

retorted,  "I  couldn't  put  a  billiard  table  on 
them,  and  sit  by  the  fire." 

This  point  of  view  quite  restored  Phil's 
belief  in  the  wisdom  of  his  choice,  and  he  wanted 
me  to  put  on  the  slippers  there  and  then  and  go 
to  business  in  them.  Then  a  thought  struck 
him. 

"I  forgot,"  he  cried.  "I've  got  another 
present.  It's  a  pipe,"  and  he  began  groping 
in  the  front  of  his  tunic  for  it. 

My  heart  sank.  I  had  no  confidence  in  the 
judgment  of  Phil  and  Beenie  where  man's  chief 
solace  was  concerned,  and  I  pictured  a  pipe  that 
would  not  draw,  with  an  abominable  little 
nickel  grating  over  the  bowl,  and  a  patent 
contrivance  to  catch  the  nicotine,  the  kind  of 
pipe  a  woman  invariably  chooses,  and  a  man 
just  as  invariably  never  smokes.  But  I  knew 
Phil,  and  I  knew  that  I  should  have  to  smoke 
his  pipe  or  he  would  know  the  reason  why. 
However,  the  pipe  he  produced  was  an  ordinary 
good  old  clay,  with  a  slim  stem,  painted  yellow. 
He  explained  that  he  had  got  this  kind  because 
it  only  cost  a  penny,  and  also  that  it  would  be 
useful  for  him  to  blow  bubbles  with,  when  it 
was  not  in  use  for  my  purposes. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  I  said.  "Suppose  you 
have  first  turn,  and  blow  bubbles." 


266  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

I  argued  that  the  pipe  would  not  survive 
more  than  an  hour  or  two  of  Phil's  handling,  and 
thus  I  should  get  gracefully  out  of  a  dilemma. 

"What?  Now?"  he  cried,  and  dashed  off 
to  the  kitchen  and  Mrs.  Binks,  while  I  sat 
down  to  my  breakfast.  He  returned  presently, 
carrying  a  saucer  of  water  with  a  lump  of  soap 
in  it,  at  a  very  precarious  angle,  his  eyes  glued 
on  it  anxiously. 

"She  said  if  I  did  n't  slop — oo!  that  was  an 
axibent,"  as  a  fair  quantity  of  the  water  splashed 
on  to  the  floor;  "  it 's  her  clean  floor,  too,  Ruddy. 
She's  slaving  on  to  her  knees  from  morning  till 
night,  an'  well  she  may,  with  a  parcel  of  men 
an'  boys " 

I  recognized  he  was  quoting  verbatim  from 
Mrs.  Binks,  and  I  said  softly: 

"Never  mind!  Cut  into  the  bathroom  and 
get  a  towel,  and  then  get  out  on  to  the  veranda." 

He  brought  the  towel,  and  I  covered  the 
evidences  of  his  crime  as  well  as  I  could,  sent 
back  the  towel,  and  having  dispatched  Phil 
to  the  veranda,  a  piece  of  toast  in  one  hand 
and  saucer  and  pipe  in  the  other,  I  finished 
my  breakfast  and  after  a  hasty  perusal  of  the 
Herald  joined  him  there.  He  was  gloriously 
happy,  bubbling  and  burbling  in  the  soapy 
water,  and  watching  the  multiple  little 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  267 

iridescent  bells  grow  from  under  the  pipe  bowl. 
I  have  always  loved  blowing  bubbles,  and  I 
accepted  with  alacrity  his  invitation  to  "play," 
finding  I  had  some  minutes  to  spare,  and  in  his 
excited  hurry  to  tell  me  how  far  his  last  bubble 
had  drifted  ere  it  burst,  he  took  a  long  breath, 
and  with  it  a  mouthful  of  soap  and  water,  which 
he  spat  out  with  a  wry  face.  We  had  a  lovely 
time.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  finer  bubbles. 
They  danced,  and  shone  green  and  blue  and 
rosy,  with  all  the  colors  of  an  opal  in  the  morn- 
ing sun,  and  when  they  were  wrecked  on  a  bush 
or  gable  they  vanished  soundlessly.  We  sent 
whole  fleets  of  them  sailing  into  the  still  sunny 
air,  large  and  small,  airy  crystal-clear  spheres, 
jostling  each  other  delicately,  and  some  of  them 
sailed  high — higher  than  the  house  tops — ere 
they  met  a  bubble's  inevitable  fate. 

"Tell  me  a  story,"  demanded  Phil,  as  a  par- 
ticularly large  and  iridescent  globe  daintily 
detached  itself,  and  rose  calmly  on  the  faint 
breeze,  and  he  thus  diplomatically  got  possession 
of  the  pipe. 

"Once,"  said  I  dreamily,  "there  was  a  man 
who  was  always  blowing  bubbles." 

"Did  he  have  a  little  boy?"  interrupted 
Phil.  "  'Cos  grown-up  men  don't  blow  bubbles 
just  for  theirselves." 


268  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"Oh,  don't  they?"  I  said.  "But,  yes,  he 
had  a  boy — rather  a  jolly  little  chap,  too.  Well, 
this  man  went  on  blowing  bubbles  all  his  life." 

"Goodness!"  Phil  took  the  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth  to  ejaculate.  "He  must've  got  sick 
of  it." 

"He  used  to  blow  beautiful  bubbles,  large 
and  shining,  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
but  somehow,  whenever  they  seemed  to  be 
getting  particularly  large  and  lovely,  pop! 
they  burst,  and  he  was  very  sad  about  it." 

"What's  the  good?  He  could  easy  blow 
more,  unless  he'd  broke  the  pipe." 

"But  one  day  he  made  the  most  beautiful 
bubble  of  all,  and  it  went  on  growing  larger 
and  larger " 

"How  large — as  big  as  my  head?" 

"Yes — and  more  beautiful  than  any  he  had 
made  before,  and  it  went  sailing,  sailing  up  into 
the  balmy  atmosphere 

"What!" 

"Up  into  the  air.  High — high — higher  it 
went " 

"How  high?" 

"Now,  look  here,  Phil.  If  you  ask  any  more 
questions  I'll  shut  up." 

"I  won't  then,  Ruddy.     G'won!" 

"And  as  he  looked  at  it  in  delight,  he  saw, 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  269 

smiling    and    shining    from    it,    a    face " 

"How  could  he  -       Oh,  I  forgot!" 

"What  did  you  want  to  say?"  I  relented  so 
far  as  to  ask. 

"It  seems  a  long  way  up  for  him  to  see — 
that's  all." 

"Sometimes  it  came  quite  near,"  I  said 
defensively. 

"Oh!     G'won." 

"But  sometimes,"  I  said,  sighing,  and  for- 
getting the  boy  beside  me,  "it  retreated  very 
far  away,  but  it  grew  more  beautiful,  more 
luminous  and  shining,  and  the  face  sweeter  and 
more  desirable,  sometimes  gentle,  sometimes 
willful,  but  always  winsome,  and  by  and  by  he 
began  to  see  other  faces  in  the  clear  mirror  of  his 
bubble,  his  own,  proud  and  smiling,  and — and 
jolly  kids,  with  brown  eyes  like  hers,  and  a 
house — a  jolly  little  house " 

Phil  exploded.  He  could  not  keep  comment 
in  any  longer. 

"A  house!  Goodness,  what  a  'normous 
bubble!" 

"And  then  quite  suddenly,"  I  said  hurriedly, 
"as  he  was  gazing  and  gazing,  his  precious 
castle  in  the  air,  his  bubble,  broke,  and  all 
the  man  got  was  a  dash  of  soapy  water  in  his 
silly  eyes." 


270  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"It  smarts,  too,  that,"  observed  Phil  with 
sympathetic  comprehension.  "Still,  I  think  his 
little  boy'd  be  glad.  It  was  time  he  had  a  turn 
with  the  bubble  pipe." 

I  looked  at  my  watch. 

"Goodness!  Look  at  the  time,"  I  cried. 
"Where's  my  hat?" 

I  dashed  into  the  house,  and  out  again, 
calling  a  hasty  good-by  to  Phil  as  I  ran. 

Phil  had  very  kindly  arranged  a  birthday 
treat  for  me.  He  was  to  have  tea  with  me, 
and  afterwards  we  were  to  go  to  a  picture  show 
at  my  expense.  He  had  included  Mrs.  Binks 
in  the  invitation,  but  she  had,  with  very  right 
feeling,  declined.  When  I  reached  home  I 
found  Phil  in  possession.  The  first  piece  of 
news  he  greeted  me  with  was  that  he  had 
broken  his  bubble  pipe. 

"Will  you  buy  me  another,  Ruddy?"  he 
asked  anxiously. 

He  seemed  rather  hazy  on  the  question  of 
ownership  of  that  pipe,  but  I  was  immensely 
relieved,  and  so  promised  I'd  certainly  make 
the  loss  good. 

At  tea  we  had  little  cakes  with  sugar  on  them, 
in  a  glass  dish.  Phil  climbed  into  his  chair.  I 
had  already  begun  my  cutlet,  but  he  reproved 
me  with  a  glance. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  271 

"Grace!"  he  said  piously.  "You  forgot, 
Ruddy!" 

I  laid  down  knife  and  fork  with  a  murmured 
apology,  and  Phil  placed  his  hands  over  his  face. 

"For  what  we  rebout  to  deceive  the  Lord 
make  us  truly  fankful  can  I  have  the  one  with 
the  pink  sugar?" 

"Now,"  said  I,  when  tea  was  over,  and  Phil 
was  fidgeting  to  be  off,  "off  you  go  to  the 
kitchen  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Binks,  while  I  have 
a  look  at  the  paper." 

So  off  he  went,  and  I  took  a  dip  into  the  paper, 
but  finding  there  mention  of  a  certain  person, 
who,  at  a  fashionable  function  at  Potts'  Point, 
had  looked  sweet  in  two  shades  of  gray,  I  fell 
to  dreaming  of  how  charming  the  gold-brown 
eyes  and  leaf -brown  hair  would  look  in  that  soft 
dove-hued  setting,  and  if  it  ever  should  become 
my  privilege,  how  I  should  adorn  that  loveliness. 
The  paper  slipped  from  my  fingers,  and  by  and 
by,  to  my  no  small  surprise  and  gratification, 
I  found  myself  composing  verses  to  Millicent 
Lynn.  I  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before, 
but  I  was  vastly  pleased  with  the  result.  It 
seemed  to  me  the  thing  was  good,  quite  as  good 
as  lots  of  things  I  'd  seen  in  magazines,  and  for 
which,  no  doubt,  the  beggars  were  paid,  too. 
This  is  how  it  ran: 


272  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

TO  M.  L. 

We  loved  in  the  summer,  when  the  skies  were  blue, 
And  sunshine,  warm  as  love,  entranced  the  air, 
And  Earth  and  Sky  seemed  beautiful,  for  you 
Were  kind  and  all  fair  things  seemed  doubly  fair. 
But  now  the  skies  are  black  with  cloud  and  storm. 
My  skies,  alas!  are  dark  indeed,  for  you 
Are  no  more  kind;  your  love,  that  seemed  so  warm, 
Is  cold  and  dead,  though  still  my  love  is  true. 

This  was  execrable  poetry,  and  very  question- 
able fact,  but,  as  I  say,  I  was  so  pleased  with  it 
that  I  became  quite  cheered  up,  and  entirely 
lost  sight  of  the  mournfulness  of  the  theme  in 
my  pride  and  pleasure  of  authorship.  I  had 
just  finished  mouthing  it  for  the  third  time,  with 
solemn  pleasure,  when  I  heard  a  small  apprecia- 
tive voice  at  the  door,  saying  gravely. 

"Very  good  indeed,  Ruddy;  you  said  your 
piece  very  good.  Binks  an'  me  think  so,  don't 
we,  Binks?" 

I  turned  scarlet.  In  the  doorway  stood  Phil, 
and  down  the  hall  I  heard  the  retreating  shuffle 
of  list  slippers. 

"Ha!"  I  gasped.  "How  long  have  you  been 
there?  Look  here,  don't  you  ever  dare  to  say 
a  word  about  this  miserable  effusion." 

"I  don't  know  what  a  miserable  confusion 
is,"  he  said  innocently. 

"This — er — poem,  my — er — 'piece'  as  you 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  273 

call  it.  Never  mention  it  to  a  soul,  especially 
Millicent." 

"I'll  try  to  bemember,"  he  promised  with  a 
sigh;  "but  there's  so  many  things  I  mustn't 
tell,  like  loving  her  best — but  she  knows  that 
now." 

"She  knows?"  I  cried,  and  lifted  him  to  my 
knee.  "How  does  she  know?" 

He  wriggled,  and  began  counting  the  links 
on  my  watch-chain.  "Twenty-eight — twenty- 
nine,"  he  counted  slowly. 

"Out  with  it,  Phil!" 

"I  didn't  tell,"  he  began.  "You  know  the 
day  I  was  drownded?"  I  nodded.  "Well, 
not  that  day,  but  the  next,  Miller  came  to  see 
if  I  was  quite  better  again,  and  she  stayed  and 
played  with  me,  an'  we  played  who  we  loved 
best  in  the  world,  and  I  said  she  could  never 
guess  who  you  loved  best,  and  she  said  she 
could  n't,  and  I  gave  her  free  guesses." 

"Oh,  Phil!" 

"She  said  me,  an'  I  said  no;  but  she  was 
getting  warm,  an'  then  she  laughed  and  kissed 
me  about  a  hundred  times,  and  she  said  she  had 
guessed  now,  but  she  would  n't  say  who,  and 
she  would  n't  tell  who  she  loved  best  either. 
You're  not  angry  with  me,  Ruddy?" 

"Angry?     No,     Phil!"     I     cried.     "You've 

18 


274  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

given  me  the  best  birthday  present  I've  ever 
had  in  my  life." 

"Yes,  I  thought  you'd  like  those  slippers," 
he  said  complacently. 

So  she  knew — she  knew — and  she  had 
kissed  him  a  hundred  times,  showing,  so  argued 
my  excited  mood,  that  she  did  not  resent  the 
knowledge.  My  heart  felt  as  light  as  a  feather, 
and  Phil  and  I  walked  to  the  car,  I  replying 
absently  to  his  excited  chatter.  Before  going 
into  the  "Pictures"  I  had  limited  Phil  to 
ninety-nine  questions.  He  was  so  conscientious 
about  it,  however,  and  checked  himself  so 
frequently,  in  case  he  might  overstep  his  limit, 
and  have  no  question  left  when  occasion  de- 
manded it,  that  I  myself  raised  the  limit  to 
999,  and  even  Phil  kept  within  that  allowance. 

For  myself,  I  sat  beside  my  young  friend 
with  that  warm  consciousness  of  content  still 
within,  until,  gradually,  as  is  my  wont,  I  over- 
worked it,  and  cold  self-consciousness  began 
to  whisper  that  I  had  so  little  to  go  upon  in 
a  child's  report  of  idle  chatter.  Then  the  lights 
went  up,  and  the  orchestra  was  rushing  at  great 
speed  through  the  national  anthem,  and  mothers 
and  fathers  were  bundling  sleepy  children  into 
coats  and  mufflers,  and  the  place  looked  sud- 
denly dusty  and  sordid  and  garish,  with  a 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  275 

litter  of  empty  chocolate  boxes  and  wrappers 
on  the  floor,  and  the  fast-emptying  seats. 

"Come  on,  Phil,"  I  said,  "let's  get  out  of 
this,"  and  was  a  little  sharp  with  him,  because 
he  would  dive  under  a  seat  after  a  piece  of 
silver  paper  out  of  a  chocolate  box.  Phil  was 
unwontedly  subdued,  and  looking  at  his  little 
sober  face,  as  he  sat  in  the  car,  I  felt  sorry. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  old  chap?" 
I  asked. 

"I  was  thinking  I  found  a  horseshoe  to-day, 
and  spitted  on  it,  but  I  have  n't  had  any  luck 
yet,  like  finding  gold  or  silver  things." 

But  just  as  we  were  leaving  the  car,  by  a 
strange  coincidence  there  was  a  silver  sixpence 
shining  at  his  feet.  True,  I  had  to  maneuver 
to  get  him  to  see  it,  but  he  was  so  delighted 
that  he  turned  to  me  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"The  very  next  horseshoe  I  find  I'll  give  to 
you,  Ruddy,  to  spit  on,  and  you'll  have  luck 
an'  find  the  thing  you  want  most." 

"I  wish  you'd  find  that  horseshoe  quick 
then,"  I  sighed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  WHICH  WE  COME  VERY  NEAR  TRAGEDY 

E  day  Phil  came  in  and  told  me  a  bit 
of  news  that  interested  me.  It  was  that 
Millicent  Lynn  had  engaged  him  for  the  follow- 
ing afternoon.  She  had  rung  up,  and  asked 
if  she  might  take  him  out,  and  his  mother 
had  said  yes,  and  then  Millicent  had  asked  for 
him,  and  he  had  spoken  to  her  at  the  telephone. 
She  had  asked  him  if  he  would  like  to  go  to 
Manly,  and  by  tram  round  to  the  Spit,  where 
they  could  cross  in  the  punt,  and  so  to  Mosman 
Bay,  and  back  to  Circular  Quay.  But,  it 
appeared,  Phil  had  very  politely  but  firmly 
intimated  that  he  would  prefer  to  take  a  trip 
in  the  "Seeing  Sydney"  motor  car.  She  had 
laughed,  he  said,  but  said  very  well,  there  was 
nothing  like  knowing  what  one  wanted. 

"Then,"  said  Phil,  "she  said,  'If  you  can't 
come,  you  must  just  give  me  a  ring  to-morrow 
morning,'  so  you  see,  Ruddy,  I'll  have  to  go, 
'cos  I  could  n't  buy  her  a  ring.  I  have  n't 
enough  money." 

"A  ring?"  said  I.  "I  wish  I  had  your 
chance,  Phil,  but  she  wouldn't  accept  one 
from  me." 

276 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  277 

I  adroitly  got  from  Phil  the  hour  of  starting, 
and  perhaps  it  was  mere  coincidence  that  I 
should  be  standing  on  the  post-office  steps, 
overlooking  Martin  Place,  just  as  the  chimes 
overhead  burst  forth  musically,  followed  by  two 
mellow,  booming  strokes.  The  large  touring 
car,  with  its  staring  inscription  "Seeing  Syd- 
ney," was  standing  outside  the  Tourist  Depart- 
ment Offices  across  the  way,  and  I  strolled  over. 
It  was  a  bit  before  its  time  lor  starting,  and 
the  chauffeur  was  chatting  to  the  taxi-cabmen 
on  the  stand,  and  only  two  passengers  were,  so 
far,  aboard,  Phil  and  Millicent.  I  knew  Phil's 
over-punctual  habits,  and  really  admired  the 
pertinacity  he  must  have  exercised  to  get  a 
lady  to  be  so  much  beforehand.  He  saw  me 
as  I  crossed  the  street,  and  with  a  delightful 
shriek  of: 

"Here's  Ruddy!  He's  coming,  too!"  stood 
up  and  waved  to  me.  I  crossed  over,  and  lifting 
my  hat,  leaned  my  arms  on  the  edge  of  the 
car  to  speak  to  my  friends.  Phil  hailed  me  with 
delight,  but  Millicent  acknowledged  my  salute 
with  a  bow  and  a  coldly  conventional  smile, 
and  answered  my  remarks  civilly,  but  without 
enthusiasm. 

"Get  in — get  in,"  cried  Phil  hospitably, 
"plenty  of  room." 


278  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

I  hesitated,  looking  straight  at  Millicent,  but 
she  was  busy,  protecting  her  pretty  white  frock 
from  Phil's  dusty  restless  little  boots,  and  would 
not  meet  my  eye. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come?"  asked  Phil, 
astonished. 

"Very  much,"  I  said. 

"Then  get  in — people  11  be  taking  all  the 
seats  soon." 

"But,"  said  I  boldly,  "will  Miss  Lynn  allow 
me!" 

"Course  you  will,  won't  you,  Miller?"  said 
Phil  easily. 

"Mr.  Lingard  knows  well  enough,  Phil," 
answered  Miss  Lynn  coldly  "that  this  is  a 
public  conveyance." 

"A  what?     It's  a  motor  car,"  said  Phil. 

"Well,"  she  cried  impatiently,  "it  isn't  my 
car,  Phil,  and  if  Mr.  Lingard  chooses  to  use  it 
I  have  nothing  to  say  one  way  or  another." 

"Ah,  but,"  said  Phil,  with  unexpected  shrewd- 
ness, "I  s'pect  he  wants  you  to  say  you'd  like 
him  to  come.  Do  say  it  Miller,"  he  coaxed. 

"Do  say  it,  Millicent!"  I  pleaded  in  a  low 
voice,  but  she  said  nothing.  Only  a  slight 
tinge  of  color  crept  into  her  smooth  cheek,  and 
she  looked  straight  ahead.  I  straightened  up 
suddenly,  with  a  laugh  entirely  without  mirth. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  279 

"Well,  good-by,  Phil— I'm  afraid  there's 
not  room  for  me,  after  all.  Hope  you  have  a 
good  time.  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Lynn,"  and, 
lifting  my  hat,  I  turned  abruptly  away,  sore 
and  angry  and  humiliated.  Before  I  was  out 
of  earshot  I  heard  Phil's  voice,  quivering  with 
the  indignant  tears  he  was  trying  to  restrain. 

"Now,  he's  gone.  I  won't  love  you  any 
more,  Miller.  You're  not  kind  to  Ruddy,  and 
I  won't  go  if  you  won't  let  him  come,  too." 

"Oh,  Phil!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  hurt  voice, 
"and  this  was  to  have  been  our  treat — just 
yours  and  mine!" 

I  heard  him  calling,  "Ruddy!  Ruddy!" 
but  I  would  not  turn  or  stop.  There  was  a  fine 
flame  of  wrath  in  my  heart,  and  pain,  too. 
This  was  the  final  bursting  of  my  bubble,  and 
I  could  never  again  dwell,  in  pensive  mood, 
upon  its  tender  colors  of  hope  and  love.  So  I 
strode  across  Martin  Place.  A  taxi  turning 
out  of  Pitt  Street,  and  making  for  its  stand,  was 
coming  down  with  a  smooth  rush  and  purring 
hum  of  rapid  wheels,  and  what  followed  seemed 
to  happen  in  one  confused  moment  of  horror. 

The  cry  of  "Ruddy,  wait!  I'm  coming!" 
the  frantic  raucous  "honk"  of  the  motor  horn, 
a  piteous  cry,  and  a  hoarse  horrified  shout  from 
some  one.  Too  late.  The  swift,  smoothly 


280  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

moving  monster  with  humming  wheels  seemed 
to  leap  on  that  little  pathetic  figure  with  its 
bright  uncovered  hair — the  little  figure  that 
went  down,  tossed  aside  by  the  great  car  that 
swerved  desperately,  and  came  to  a  stand  in 
its  own  length  with  grinding  brakes.  I  was 
kneeling,  with  Phil's  little  motionless  figure  in 
my  arms.  One  sturdy  arm  hung  limply,  there 
was  dust  on  his  white  clothes  and  bright  hair, 
but  his  face  and  head  seemed  uninjured,  and 
his  eyes  were  only  half  closed,  showing  a  gleam 
of  light  from  under  the  long  lashes.  The  usual 
crowd  gathered  as  though  by  magic,  pressing 
and  peering.  I  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  police- 
man with  a  notebook,  and  the  chauffeur,  who 
repeated  over  and  over:  "He  run  right  acrost 
me,  the  pore  kid  did.  I  done  me  best!" 

Vaguely  I  heard  the  roar  of  George  Street 
close  by.  I  smelled  the  strong,  smoky  stench 
of  petrol,  and  a  wave  of  rich  exotic  perfume 
of  carnations  from  the  flower  sellers'  barrows, 
that,  till  the  day  I  die,  will  be  associated  in  my 
mind  with  the  horror,  and  fear,  and  pain  of 
death.  I  heard  a  woman  in  the  crowd: 

"Look  at  the  father — pore  feller! — ain't  'e 
cut  up?" 

Some  one  called  out  the  doctor  was  coming, 
and  then  beside  me  I  heard  a  voice,  even,  calm 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  281 

with  utter  despair :  ' '  He  is  dead.  I  have  killed 
him.  I  have  killed  little  Phil." 

I  looked  up.  Millicent  stood  there,  white  as 
a  flower,  her  dark  eyes  tragic  with  suffering. 
They  hurt  me — those  eyes! 

"Nonsense!"  I  cried  out  angrily.  "Phil  is 
not  dead." 

Then  the  doctor  came,  and  we  carried  the  boy 
into  one  of  the  offices  close  by,  shutting  out  the 
curious  crowd.  We  telephoned  for  the  mother 
and  father.  The  mother  was  out — at  a  bridge 
party,  'the  maid  thought,  but  would  do  her 
best  to  find  her.  The  father  arrived  in  ten 
minutes — a  tall,  thin,  silent  man,  Phil's  father, 
reserved  and  undemonstrative.  I  had  some- 
times wondered  if  he  really  appreciated  Phil, 
was  as  proud  and  glad  as  he  ought  to  be  that 
he  was  the  father  of  such  a  son.  He  said  little, 
only  a  few  low- voiced  questions,  and  then  he 
took  his  place  beside  his  son,  his  eyes  riveted 
on  the  doctor's  face.  The  latter  worked  in 
silence,  making  a  swift,  deft  examination. 
Millicent,  still  with  colorless  face  and  tragic 
tearless  eyes,  did  all  his  bidding  in  silent  obedi- 
ence, while  he  temporarily  bound  up  the  injured 
arm.  And  still  Phil  lay  in  that  deathlike 
trance,  with  neither  sigh,  nor  moan,  nor  move- 
ment, and  still  the  father  watched  the  doctor's 


282  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

face  with  a  dumb  inquiry,  and  the  doctor's 
face  was  grave  enough.  I  fought  with  a  para- 
lyzing fear  as  I  marked  its  deepening  gravity. 
A  clock  on  the  office  wall  ticked  in  the  silence, 
and  outside  the  clamor  of  the  chimes  at  the 
three-quarter  broke  out  again.  Not  an  hour, 
and  such  a  change  to  be  wrought!  Then 
suddenly  came  a  rush  of  feet,  a  sharp  rap  at 
the  door,  and  there  rushed  into  the  room,  with 
a  silken  rustle,  a  tap-tap  of  high  heels,  a  jingle 
of  ornaments,  and  a  breeze  of  perfume— 
Phil's  mother. 

" My  boy — my  precious  boy,  my  little  Phil!" 
she  cried  hysterically,  and  would  have  flung 
herself  on  the  unconscious  little  form,  but  the 
doctor  cried  sharply: 

"Keep  that  woman  back,"  and  her  husband 
caught  and  held  her. 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear!"  he  said,  his  arm 
about  her. 

Suddenly  she  saw  me,  and  cried  out  fiercely, 
accusingly : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lingard — how  could  you!  I  trusted 
you,  and  this  is  the  way  you  look  after  the 
boy  you  seemed  so  fond  of.  Why  did  I  ever 
let  him  out  of  my  sight?  But  I  thought  I 
could  trust  you!" 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  her  husband,  once  more, 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  283 

but  she  would  not  be  silenced,  in  her  sobbing 
reproaches.  "I  will  never  trust  you  again,  Mr. 
Lingard.  Oh,  how  could  you?" 

"I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,"  I  said  mechanically, 
fearful  lest  Millicent  should  hear.  The  woman 
had  evidently  forgotten  that  Phil  was  not  in 
my  charge  that  day. 

"Sorry?"  she  burst  out — I,  myself,  had 
thought  drearily  how  limited  a  language  was 
that,  that  must  express  the  anguish  of  remorse 
for  an  irreparable  tragedy  in  the  same  words  as 
regret  for  some  trifling  offense — "what  good 
does  that  do  now  with  my  boy  lying  there, 
injured,  perhaps  dying?  If  Phil  dies " 

A  gray  shadow  passed  over  the  man's  face, 
aging  it  incredibly,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  a 
moment.  Then  in  a  low,  authoritative  voice 
he  said  to  her: 

"No  more,  my  dear!  Mr.  Lingard,"  he 
continued,  "my  wife  is  overwrought.  You 
will  forgive  her  words.  We  know  how  kind 
you  have  been  to  our  boy,  and  that  no  neglect 
of  yours  brought  this  about." 

I  gripped  his  hand,  muttering  with  difficulty. 

"I  would  have — died,  to  save  you  this." 

"I  know — I  know!"  he  said  kindly,  and 
shifted  his  patient  gaze  to  the  doctor  again. 

Then  I  was  aware  of  Millicent,  that  white 


284  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

wraith  of  Millicent,  with  the  woeful  eyes,  beside 
us.     She  spoke  to  Phil's  mother: 

"Do  not  blame  Mr.  Lingard,  for  it  was 

"Quick!"  I  cried,  "the  doctor  wants  you," 
and  she  turned  and  hurried  back,  her  self- 
reproach  unuttered.  I  sighed  with  relief.  It 
seemed  that  beyond  the  arm  there  were  no 
bones  broken,  but  there  was  very  serious  con- 
cussion and,  it  was  feared,  a  bad  fracture  of 
the  skull.  They  took  him  away,  and  the  crowd 
having  melted  away,  too,  we  found  ourselves, 
Millicent  and  I,  drawn  together  by  sorrow  in 
a  way  that  nothing  else  could  have  done,  left 
staring  with  unseeing  eyes  into  the  great  con- 
cave windows  of  the  Tourist  Office.  The  sunny 
street  was  filled  with  life  and  bustle,  but  in  our 
hearts  was  desperate  fear. 

"You  were  splendid — in  there!"  I  said,  at 
last,  hoping  to  wipe  that  stricken  look  from 
the  girl's  white  face,  by  this  small  comfort. 

"Splendid!"  she  echoed  drearily,  and  then 
burst  out  with  sudden  passion,  "Why — why— 
what  right  had  you  to  take  my  blame  upon 
yourself?  Have  I  not  enough  to  bear  that 
you  should  thrust  this  added  weight  of  remorse 
upon  me?" 

"And  I,"— I  said,  "if  you  will  take  this 
blame  upon  yourself — have  I  not  something 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  285 

to  bear,  too,  when  you  refuse  to  let  me  help 
you  bear  your  trouble?" 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"Oh,  you  are  generous,"  she  said,  "but — 
but  why  don't  you  say  what  you  must  be 
thinking?  I  deserve  it,  oh,  yes!  I  deserve 
it  all — that  this  is  twice  I  have  brought  to 
danger  and  death,  by  willful  obstinacy  and 
selfishness,  the  little  child  we  both  love." 

"Why  should  I  say  that?"  I  asked  gently. 
"Even  if  I  thought  it,  and  God  knows  I  do 
not,  have  you  not  enough  to  bear,  as  you 
have  said?" 

"Oh,  you  are  good  to  me — good!"  she  said 
chokingly.  "But  if  Phil  dies-  -" 

Always  came  that  dreadful  significant  pause 
at  the  bare  thought.  We  parted  soon  after, 
with  a  lingering  handclasp,  for  she  begged  me 
to  leave  her,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  I  took  my 
way  to  the  office.  But  I  could  not  work. 
Phil's  merry  face  came  between  me  and  my 
tasks,  and  then  his  face,  as  I  had  seen  it  last. 
There  was  a  snapshot  of  him  with  Terry,  I  had 
taken,  and  always  kept  on  my.  desk;  there 
were  two  chairs  in  the  corner,  harnessed  to- 
gether with  string,  where  he  had  played  horses 
the  last  time  he  had  been  at  my  office,  and  even 
the  mournful  squeak  of  the  lift  as  it  ran  up 


286  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

and  down  was  a  reminder  of  him,  he  had  always 
been  so  concerned  about  it.  Over  the  tele- 
phone I  had  already  heard  that  there  was  no 
change  in  Phil's  condition.  Another  doctor 
had  been  called  in,  and  it  was  feared  an  opera- 
tion would  be  necessary.  Some  pressure  on  the 
brain  was  suspected.  Yes,  it  would  be  a  serious 
operation,  but  there  was  the  chance — the  bare 
chance.  It  seemed  I  sat  there  a  long  time — 
thinking — thinking — staring  idly  into  space, 
when  I  heard  a  gentle  tap  at  my  door,  and 
Miss  Ellis  entered. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  trembling,  "have  you  any 
further  news?  I  have  just  left  Millicent  Lynn. 
Oh,  that  dear  little  boy — will  he  die?" 

"I — don't — know,"  I  said  heavily,  and  told 
my  news  briefly. 

"Millicent  is  in  such  dreadful  grief,"  she 
said.  "She  sits  thinking  and  thinking  with 
dry  eyes.  If  she  would  only  cry  it  would  not 
be  so — so — dreadful." 

The  little  Spinster  wiped  her  eyes,  and  her 
voice  trembled  as  she  continued: 

"She  blames  herself  so,  poor  girl.  She  says 
it  happened  all  in  a  moment.  She  did  not 
dream  he  would  follow  you  when — when — 
she  said,  'Oh,  very  well,  if  you'd  rather  be  with 
Mr.  Lingard,  go  with  him.'  She  said  Phil  left 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  287 

her  side  in  an  instant,  and  before  she  could 
reach  the  street,  the — the  awful  thing  had 
happened." 

She  shuddered,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands 
a  moment.  Then  she  went  on  waveringly: 

"I  am  growing  old,  and  had  never  known 
the  love  of  a  little  child  till  Phil  came  into  my 
life.  I  had  no  patience  with  children,  but  Phil 
taught  me  how  much  a  child  can  mean  to  a 
woman.  He  never  seemed  to  notice  how  old 
and  sharp  and  forbidding  I  had  become — he 
never  shrank  from  me  as  I  have  seen  other 
children  do,  and  I  think  that  is  why  I  shrank 
from  them,  for  fear  of  a  rebuff,  for  a  childless 
woman  is  very  fearful  of  the  rebuffs  of  a  child. 
And  how  he  loved  you,  Mr.  Lingard.  He  said 
when  he  grew  up  he  meant  to  be  just  like  you, 
and " 

"Don't!"  I  groaned,  and  dropped  my  head 
upon  my  crossed  arms  on  the  desk.  There 
was  silence  for  a  space,  and  then  I  felt  a  very 
gentle  hand  upon  my  bowed  head. 

"Poor  boy!"  came  a  very  tender  voice  above 
me — "only  a  boy  after  all,  another  Phil  not 
so  very,  very  many  years  ago.  But  keep  up, 
dear  boy,  for  all  our  sakes — for  Millicent's 
sake!" 

These  last  words  she  breathed  just  against 


288  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

my  ear,  and  then  she  stole  away,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  a  special,  sweet  significance  hung 
like  an  aroma  about  them,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  a  faint  pencil  of  light  stole  divinely  across 
the  gloom,  while  very,  very  delicate  and  wan 
and  aloof,  my  bubble  rose  and  floated  again 
before  my  eyes.  Returning  home,  at  my  gate, 
a  little  figure  in  blue,  with  bright  hair  and 
tumbled  ribbon,  flung  itself  into  my  arms.  It 
was  Olivia  Mary,  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
must  break.  All  her  little  airs  of  consequence 
and  willfulness  were  gone.  And,  as  I  held  her 
there,  her  little  wet  cheek  warm  against  mine, 
her  clinging  arms  about  my  neck,  she  sobbed 
stormily : 

"Oh,  is  Phil  going  to  die,  Ruddy?  Will  he 
die?" 

All  my  ancient  antagonism  faded,  and  to  me 
she  was  no  longer  the  autocratic  Olivia  Mary, 
but  just  a  dear  little  girl  in  trouble,  and  my  heart 
warmed  to  her,  as  I  carried  her  indoors. 

Some  one  had  told  her  of  Phil's  accident,  and 
that  he  was  going  to  die. 

"Oh,    Ruddy,"    she    wept,    "I    1-love    Phil 
b-best  of  all  the  chil'rens  at  the  Kindergarter— 
better  than  'Lizabeth.     If  he  gets  better  I'll 
give  him  my  Coronation  m-medal.     Is  he  going 
to  die?" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  289 

"Die?  Phil?  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  I  said 
sturdily,  but  Mrs.  Binks  who  had  come  in  to 
arrange  the  table,  very  red-eyed  and  sniffing, 
shook  her  head  pessimistically.  She  had  heard 
the  news,  it  appeared,  from  the  baker's  boy, 
with  embellishments.  Mrs.  Binks  had  no  love 
for  Olivia  Mary,  considering  she  "put  upon" 
Phil,  but  seeing  the  child's  genuine  grief  she 
so  far  softened  as  to  present  her  with  a  piece  of 
plum  cake. 

"There!"  she  said,  as  Olivia  Mary,  suf- 
ficiently recovered  to  take  languid  bites  at  the 
dainty,  though  still  shaken  with  an  occasional 
hiccough  of  emotion,  sat  up  on  my  knee. 

"That's  a  bit  of  his  very  own  cake,  the 
blessed  lamb!  I  always  made  a  special  one  for 
him  on  baking  day — 'e  relished  it  so — not 
that  it's  likely  'e'll  be  wantin'  any  more  o'  my 
cakes  where  'e's  a-goin',  poor  little  dear!" 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  "Phil  will  live  to  make 
many,  many  more  of  your  cakes  look  foolish, 
Mrs.  Binks." 

"I  only  'ope  it  may  be  so,"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Binks  gloomily,  shaking  her  head,  "but  there 
was  my  cousin's  sister's  'usband's  child,  'er 
marrying  a  widower,  so  to  speak,  took  off  at 
Phil's  age,  with  a  operation,  and  'sides,  that 
boy's  such  an  angel — too  good  to  live!  I've 

19 


290  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

always  said  it,  and  now  this  proves  me  words." 
"Meaning  Phil?"  I  cried.  "Why,  Mrs. 
Binks,  and  the  times  you've  said  you  never 
saw  such  a  boy  for  bringing  dirt  into  your 
clean  kitchen,  and  picking  the  currents  out 
of  your  current  scones,  and  leaving  the  tap  at 
the  sink  running,  and — oh,  don't  you  worry 
about  Phil!" 

"And,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Mrs.  Binks 
with  heavy  sarcasm,  rearranging  for  the  twenti- 
eth time  my  cup-and-saucer,  "as  you're  not 
worrying?  Oh,  no!  Not  at  all!" 

"Worrying?"  I  lied.  "Dear  me,  no!" 
"Then  may  I  h'ask,"  retorted  Mrs.  Binks 
crushingly,  "as  to  why  you  'ave  not  took  one 
morsel  of  my  good  dinner  yet,  and  it  on  the 
table  this  ten  minutes,  an'  steak  an'  kidney  pie, 
as  is  well  known  to  be  your  favorite,  deny  it,  if 
you  can,  an'  you  as  a  rule  that  'ungry  you've 
been  known  to  sit  down  to  your  dinner  before 
it's  out  of  the  h'oven,  so  to  speak — you  are  not 
worrying — oh,  no,  not  at  all!" 

With  which,  wiping  her  eyes  on  her  apron, 
Mrs.  Binks  left  the  room,  triumphant. 

Olivia  Mary  having  assured  me  her  where- 
abouts was  known,  I  invited  her  to  pour  out 
tea  for  me,  which  important  office  almost 
restored  her  to  her  normal  self-possession.  She 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  291 

sat  on  Phil's  special  chair,  his  own  cushion, 
and  in  his  particular  place,  because  I  had  such 
a  morbid  shrinking  from  sitting  there.  So 
there  she  sat,  pouring  out  tea,  and  letting  a 
generous  quantity  dribble  on  to  "B  inks'  clean 
cloth,"  as  Phil  would  have  said,  having  caught 
the  trick  from  that  lady,  who  always  spoke,  as 
it  were,  in  the  possessive  case,  as  "my  floors," 
"my  clean  steps,"  "my  kitchen." 

For  myself  I  could  not  eat,  and  ashamed  to 
let  Mrs.  Binks  triumph  over  my  untouched 
plate,  I  sneaked  off  with  Olivia  Mary  and  took 
her  home,  before  calling  again  at  Phil's  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN   WHICH   MY  FRIEND   PHIL   APPROACHES 
THE  VALLEY 

IDHIL'S  Beenie  opened  the  door  to  me,  her 
face  red  and  swollen  with  weeping.  It 
seemed  that  all  my  little  world  went  about,  just 
now,  red-eyed  and  tearful,  excepting  always 
that  white,  tearless  girl  whose  grief  was  deepest. 
In  a  voice  choked  with  sobs,  Beenie  told  me 
there  was  still  no  change.  The  doctors  were 
with  him.  I  asked  if  it  would  be  possible  to 
see  him.  I  had  a  great  desire  to  see  Phil  once 
again,  before  the  surgeon's  tools  had  touched 
him,  and  this,  deep  down  in  my  heart  I  knew 
was  because  of  the  unacknowledged  fear  of 
what  might  be  left,  after  those  tools  had  done 
their  worst — or  best. 

"Ask  the  nurse — there's  a  good  girl,"  I 
said  to  Beenie. 

"Her,"  she  flushed  angrily  (it  was  evident 
the  poor  soul  was  miserably  jealous);  "as  if  I 
could  n't  look  after  my  little  boy  better  than  her 
who's  nothing  but  a  stranger;  an'  me  who 
come  to  the  house  when  I  was  sixteen,  an' 
him  in  long  clothes,  and  such  lace  on  his 

robes " 

292 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  293 

Poor  Beenie  choked.  It  was  evident  that  the 
memory  of  the  lace  on  his  robes  had  some  myste- 
rious power  to  make  her  heart  bleed  afresh. 

"Poor  Beenie!"  I  said  pityingly,  "I'm 
sure  he'd  choose  you  if  he  could,  but  these 
nurses " 

"You  think  he  would?"  cried  the  girl, 
catching  at  my  hand.  "Oh,  bless  you  for 
saying  that!  I  don't  mind  so  much  now." 

And  she  hurried  off.  Presently  a  pleasant- 
faced,  white-capped  nurse  came  to  me.  Her 
eyebrows  went  up  in  a  surprised  smile  when 
she  saw  me. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "the  little  maid  told  me 
Phil's  greatest  friend  was  here,  and  I  expected 
to  see " 

"Some  one  Phil's  own  age,"  I  said.  "But 
it  is  true;  and  it  would  not  seem  strange  to 
you  if  you  knew  Phil." 

She  answered  my  questions.  The  doctors 
were  with  him  now,  and  the  operation  would 
be  performed  almost  immediately — yes,  a  seri- 
ous one — but — there  was  always  the  chance — 
might  I  see  him? 

She  looked  doubtful,  but  a  door  opening 
above  us,  she  bade  me  wait  while  she  asked 
the  doctor.  The  latter,  a  man  I  knew  came 
down  to  me. 


294  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said.  "No  harm  in  your 
seeing  the  patient,  but  I  warn  you,  Lingard,  he 
won't  know  you.  He  still  lies  in  the  same 
comatose  state." 

Again,  with  my  tongue  grown  thick  and 
stammering,  I  put  the  fateful  question.  He 
looked  grave.  "Impossible  to  tell,"  he  said, 
"till  after  the  operation.  I  may  say  he  has 
a  chance — a  fair,  fighting  chance.  A  pity — a 
great  pity,  the  whole  thing.  A  fine  little 
chap,  too." 

I  followed  the  nurse  up  the  stairs,  my  heart 
beating  in  slow  heavy  throbs.  How  often  I 
had  seen  Phil  come  dancing  down  these  stairs, 
or,  if  Beenie  was  not  about,  risking  his  neck  on 
the  bannisters.  Already  over  the  house  seemed 
to  have  fallen  the  hush  of  death.  The  doctors 
were  in  a  further  room,  making  their  prepara- 
tions. They  had  taken  Phil  from  his  bed,  and 
had  laid  him  on  a  hastily  improvised  operating 
table,  and  I  shuddered  at  the  white  sheet  drawn 
up  to  his  chin.  He  was  lying  as  I  had  last  seen 
him,  his  bandaged  arm  strapped  across  his 
breast,  his  thick,  fair  hair  fallen  back  from  his 
white  forehead,  and  still  with  that  slight  gleam 
from  between  the  lowered  lids  and  thick  lashes. 
With  a  lump  in  my  throat,  I  walked  silently 
from  the  room  again,  and  went  slowly  down 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  295 

the  stairs.  At  the  foot  of  them  I  paused.  On 
the  hall  table  a  parcel  was  lying,  clumsily 
wrapped  and  tied,  and  on  the  wrapper,  in 
large  printed  capitals  was  the  uneven  inscrip- 
tion: "RUDDY --FOR  GOOD  LUCK." 

I  picked  it  up,  wondering  at  the  weight. 
Untying  it,  I  found  it  to  be  the  horseshoe  Phil 
had  promised  me.  It  was  heavy  indeed,  but, 
as,  with  a  strange  superstitious  hope,  I  thrust 
it  into  my  coat  pocket,  my  heart  felt  a  little 
lighter.  Something  whispered  Phil  would  not 
die  while  I  carried  his  charm,  his  talisman, 
about  with  me.  Suddenly,  somewhere  close  to 
me,  I  heard  a  sigh,  almost  a  groan  that  seemed 
to  be  wrung  from  the  depths  of  some  suffering 
soul.  Involuntarily  glancing  in  its  direction, 
I  perceived  through  an  open  doorway  the  figure 
of  a  man  with  bowed  head  laid  upon  his  crossed 
arms — Phil's  father.  And  as  I  glanced,  that 
heavy  sound  came  again.  I  was  about  to  tip- 
toe away,  when  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  me, 
and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  seemed  to  have 
aged  years. 

"Ah,  Lingard!"  he  said.  "Come  in — come 
in — you've  been  to  see  the  last  of  the  little 
chap?" 

"The  last?"  I  cried.  "By  God,  no— not 
the  last,  I'm  sure  of  that!" 


296  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"They're    beginning    their    butcher's    work 
soon,"  he  said  bitterly.     "And  when  they've 
done  with  him,  God  knows  what  will  be  left— 
an  idiot  perhaps — or  a  corpse." 

But  I  would  not  hear  of  either,  and  talked 
glibly,  though  my  ignorance  was  profound,  of 
the  successful  operations  that  had  been  per- 
formed on  the  brain,  and  though  he  still  looked 
dejected,  I  could  see  he  listened  eagerly,  anx- 
iously, willing  to  be  persuaded.  After  a  time 
he  said,  in  a  more  natural  tone,  quiet  and  kind: 

"You  must  pardon  me,  Lingard,  for  my— 
my  morbid  talk  just  now.  And  I  want  to  say 
to  you,  whatever  happens,  and  my  wife  would 
echo  me,  only  that  she  being  so  overstrung, 
naturally,  the  doctor  thought  it  best  she  should 
take  a  sedative,  and  she  is  now  mercifully 
unconscious  of  what  I — well,  as  I  say,  we  want 
you  never  to  reproach  yourself  with  all  this. 
We  know  how  good  you've  been  to  our  boy, 
and  how  the  little  chap  adored  you — a  case 
of  hero  worship.  I've  never  said  much,  but 
I  've  felt  grateful  and — and — how  I  have  envied 
you." 

"Envied  me?"  I  echoed.  "But  how  much 
more  have  I  envied  you  to  be  the  father  of  such 
a  boy  as  Phil." 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  cried  harshly.     "Never 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  297 

pray,  as  I  prayed,  for  a  son.  I  married  later 
than  most  men,  and  we  were  married  five  years, 
and  childless — my  wife —  He  stopped 
abruptly,  and  then  went  on  hurriedly:  "Never 
long  for  a  son  as  I  did,  lest,  like  me,  you  should 
come  to  feel  the  mental  pain  that  I  have  now, 
in  fearing  to  lose  him.  Yes,"  he  continued 
more  quietly,  "I  have  envied  you  because  you 
have  been  able  to  give  him  what  I  could  never 
give  him — comradeship,  fun,  and  understand- 
ing. Phil  cares  for  me,  in  a  way,  of  course,  but 
it  is  to  you  he  turns  for  sympathy.  You  are 
to  him  'one  of  us,'  between  you  the  freemasonry 
of  friends;  between  us  there  is  a  gulf  fixed,  and 
—and  his  mother,  poor  girl,  has  so  many  out- 
side calls  on  her  time  and  attention,  and  she 
does  not — understand  children.  I  am  a  lonely 
man.  I'd  have  given  worlds  to  know  my  son 
as  you  know  him,  but  as  yet  he  is  too  little  to 
comprehend.  I  had  hoped  that  as  he  grew 
older,  we  would  draw  together,  but,  now " 

With  a  hopeless  gesture  he  turned  away,  and 
I  saw  in  all  its  pathos  the  tragedy  of  the  lonely 
self-repressed  man  whose  wife  was  a  butterfly, 
and  his  son  "too  little  to  comprehend." 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  me,  an  almost  eager 
look  in  his  eyes: 

"I    wonder — would    you    care "       He 


298  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

was  fingering  a  key  on  his  watch-chain,  and 
hesitated. 

"Yes?"  I  said  grimly. 

"I'm  an  old  fool,  perhaps,"  he  said  grimly. 
"But  you  love  the  boy,  and  I  think  will  under- 
stand." 

He  unlocked  a  cabinet  standing  against  the 
wall,  and  beckoned  me. 

"Woman's  work — mother's  work,"  he 
muttered,  shaking  his  head.  "But  she — did 
not  understand — and  some  one  had  to  —  He 

paused,  looking  at  me.  The  contents  of  the 
cabinet  made  up  such  a  collection  as  mothers 
love  to  hoard  up  and  fondle,  long  after  their 
little  ones  are  grown,  and  flown  the  home  nest, 
a  tiny  pair  of  shoes  with  rubbed  toes,  a  tress  of 
flaxen  hair,  soft  and  straight,  an  ivory  rattle 
with  silver  bells,  a  picture  of  a  laughing  year-old 
baby  with  Phil's  merry  eyes,  and  soft  thick  hair. 
There  were  other  things  in  that  sacred  cabinet, 
and  as,  with  pathetic  eagerness,  he  took  them 
out  one  by  one,  and  laid  them  in  my  hands,  I 
felt  the  pitifulness  of  the  abandon  with  which 
this  sternly  reserved  nature  poured  out  the 
treasures  of  his  soul  to  me,  with  that  utter 
unreserve  that  only  such  a  nature  can  give  way 
to,  once  the  barriers  are  down.  There  was  a 
drawing  of  Terry,  executed  by  Phil,  and  dated 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  299 

by  his  father's  hand,  Terry  with  an  uncomfort- 
able number  of  legs,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  mis- 
placed eyes,  but  the  father  said  proudly: 

"Crude,  of  course,  but  I  thought  it  showed 
promise." 

There  was  a  picture  postcard  sent  and 
addressed  by  Phil,  when  the  boy  had  been 
away  on  a  holiday,  and  a  gayly  worked  tobacco 
pouch,  a  present  from  Phil,  and  a  little,  very 
dingy  cloth  rabbit,  with  all  its  stuffed  legs  limp 
and  broken. 

"That,"  almost  whispered  the  father,  "he 
took  to  bed  with  him  every  night  when  he  was 
younger.  'Rabby,'  he  called  it,  and  if  at 
bedtime  it  could  not  be  found  the  whole  house 
was  roused  until  it  turned  up."  He  smiled, 
smoothing  the  dingy  thing  tenderly.  "I  found 
the  poor  old  thing  in  the  rubbish  box,  not  long 
ago,  and,  it  was  foolish,  I  suppose,  but  I  could  n't 
bear  to  let  it  go.  Phil's  forgotten  his  old  friend, 
but  it  brings  back  to  me  the  picture  of  the  little 
chap  in  his  little  white  gown,  coming  from  his 
bath  to  say  good  night,  his  'Rabby'  clasped 
in  his  arms." 

Other  trifles  there  were,  exquisitely  painful 
to  look  upon,  and  lastly,  the  father,  half 
shamefaced,  half  eager,  put  it  in  my  hands, 
a  notebook.  It  was  a  pitiful  enough  record 


300  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

of  trifles,  with  such  entries  as  these,  all  dated: 

"Phil  cut  his  first  tooth:  age,  6  months, 
3  weeks." 

"Had  Phil's  photo  taken:  age,  7  months. 
Photographer  remarked  on  his  splendid  limbs." 

"Phil  said  Daddie  (?)  (or  perhaps  doggie): 
age,  9  months.  (Two  days  later):  'Daddie' 
quite  distinctly." 

"Phil  took  four  steps  alone  to-day:  age, 
10  months  3  days." 

"Bought  Phil's  first  pair  of  boots:  3  years 
old." 

"Phil  started  school  to-day.  (5  years  6 
months)." 

"Phil's  first  fight:    Bravo!     Bravo!" 

"Note:  Some  doubt  as  to  which  way  the 
victory  went — but  still  a  fight." 

The  last  entry  was  less  than  a  week  back, 
and  was  this: 

"Measured  Phil  to-day:  Height  3  ft.  9  ins. 
tall  and  broad  for  his  age,  viz.:  6  years 
7  months." 

As  the  blank  pages  fluttered  beneath  my 
fingers,  I  could  not  help  wondering  what  the 
next  entry  might  be.  The  father  was  looking 
at  me,  his  tired,  pleasant  eyes  half-smiling 
and  eager.  He  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have 
almost  forgotten  his  trouble.  But  as  I  laid 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  301 

down  the  little  book,  above  us  we  heard  an 
opening  door,  low  voices  and  footsteps,  then 
the  opening  and  closing  of  another  door,  and 
again  silence.  The  man  stood  tense,  rigid, 
his  head  raised,  as  if  listening.  He  put  out 
a  hand  which  trembled  slightly,  and  laid  it  on 
my  arm. 

"Hark!"  he  whispered.  "They  are  at  him 
now.  My  God!  Oh,  my  poor  little  lad!" 

Already  the  heavy  sickly  sweet  odor  of 
anesthetics  was  stealing  through  the  house, 
that  odor  so  mysteriously  suggestive  of  mor- 
tality. There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  silent 
house,  but  a  presence  hovered  there,  neverthe- 
less, and  we  felt  it.  Silently  I  held  out  my 
hand  in  farewell,  and,  with  an  heroic  effort  to 
pull  himself  together  he  gripped  it  hard,  and 
we  parted  without  another  word.  I  left  him 
standing,  erect  and  calm,  but  even  as  I  turned 
to  close  the  door  I  saw  him  leaning  again  over 
his  cabinet  of  treasures  with  bowed  head.  So 
I  left  him  to  his  solitary  vigil. 

As  I  was  entering  my  own  door  a  cab  dashed 
up  to  the  gate,  and  out  of  it  stepped  Mr. 
Wimple.  He  came  into  the  house,  his  usually 
florid  face  quite  pale  and  concerned,  his  manner 
nervous. 

"What's  all  this?"   he  cried.     "God  bless 


302  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

my  soul,  Lingard,  what's  all  this  I  hear  about 
that  fine  little  chap,  Humphrey?" 

"Too  true,"  I  said  gloomily,  and  told  him 
all  I  knew. 

It  seemed  that  he  had  read  an  account  of  the 
accident  in  The  Sun,  while  crossing  in  the  ferry, 
and  had  come  straight  back  to  the  city  to  hear 
particulars.  Now  he  could  do  nothing  but  sit 
mopping  his  bald  forehead  with  a  huge  silk 
handkerchief,  polishing  his  glasses,  and  occasion- 
ally exclaiming  in  an  undertone:  "God  bless 
my  soul." 

And  as  we  sat  there  Mrs.  Binks  showed  in 
Miss  Ellis  and  Millicent,  and  we  all  shook 
hands  silently. 

"This  poor  girl,"  said  Miss  Ellis,  in  a  low 
voice  to  me,  "could  not  rest.  Her  father 
is  out  of  town  for  the  night  and  I  could  not 
leave  her,  so  we  thought  we  would  come  along 
here  for  the  latest  news." 

So  we  sat,  we  four,  less  than  a  year  ago 
utter  strangers,  brought  together  in  our  lives 
by  that  little  fifth,  who  was  not  present,  but 
who,  even  now,  was  binding  us  closer,  with 
firmer  bonds  than  ever,  the  bonds  of  mutual 
sorrow.  We  talked  in  low  voices,  except  for 
Millicent,  who  spoke  not  at  all,  save  in  mono- 
syllables, if  addressed.  Mr.  Wimple  and  I  at 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  .    303 

first  made  efforts  to  speak  on  everyday  topics, 
but  the  women  were  unresponsive  and  we,  too, 
fell  silent.  So  we  sat  in  heavy  silence  waiting. 
It  had  been  decided  that  as  the  vital  question 
was  to  be  decided  by  the  operation,  we  should 
all  remain  together  till  that  was  over. 

Once  Mr.  Wimple  burst  forth  irritably: 

"How  much  longer  are  we  to  wait,  Lingard? 
I  can't  stand  much  more  of  this,"  and  I 
answered : 

"From  an  hour  to  an  hour  and  a  half,  the 
nurse  said.  After  that  they  would — know." 

"These  operations — I  hate  'em,"  he  said 
testily.  And  the  time  ticked  on.  I  was  longing, 
yet  dreading  for  the  time  of  probation  to  pass 
—dreading  lest  the  awful  uncertainty  and 
suspense  should  become  the  more  awful  knowl- 
edge. But  slowly,  slowly,  the  clock  hand 
moved  round  to  the  hour,  crept  past  it  to  the 
quarter,  and  I  rose  slowly.  I  was  conscious  that 
I  was  deadly  pale,  and  my  voice  shook  strangely 
as  I  said  in  deliberately  measured  tones: 

"It  is  about  time  now,  I  think.  I  will  just 
go  and — inquire  for  news." 

A  great  explosive  sigh  broke  from  Mr.  Wimple, 
and  he  rose  hastily. 

"Yes,  for  goodness  sake — anything  is  better 
than  this  sitting  still — we  will  all  go." 


304  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

Millicent,  too,  had  risen.  Her  face  was  start- 
lingly  pale,  and  her  eyes  unnaturally  large  and 
dark. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  long  sigh.  "Let 
us  go." 

Then  Miss  Ellis  had  one  of  her  beautiful 
inspirations,  for  she  said  to  Mr.  Wimple: 

"I  wonder — I  am  very  tired,  and  rather 
shaken  by  this  sad  event — if  you  would  be 
so  very  kind,  Mr.  Wimple,  as  to  wait  here  with 
me,  and  let  Mr.  Lingard  and  Miss  Lynn  bring 
us  the  news?" 

I  knew  it  was  an  effort  for  this  proudly  shy 
little  woman,  for  her  cheeks  were  colored  softly, 
but  I  blessed  her  in  my  heart. 

"Why — ah!  Certainly,  Miss  Ellis,"  answered 
Mr.  Wimple.  "Delighted,  I'm  sure,"  and  he 
sat  down  slowly,  but  I  could  see  he  was  puzzled. 
Just  as  we  were  leaving  the  room  Mr.  Wimple 
smote  his  knee,  exclaiming  half  under  his  breath : 

"Of  course — God  bless  my  soul!  What  an 
old  fool  I  am!"  And  the  look  he  gave  Miss 
Ellis  was  wholly  admiring. 

Millicent  and  I  went  along  in  silence.  The 
distance  was  trifling,  but  I  was  conscious  of 
conflicting  desires,  that  it  might  be  shorter  still, 
and  so  get  suspense  over,  or  that  it  might  be 
twice  as  long  so  that  hope  might  still  live.  And 


MY   FRIEND   PHIL  305 

I  think  the  girl  at  my  side  felt  the  same,  for  at 
times  she  walked  quickly,  almost  in  a  feverish 
hurry,  and  then  her  steps  would  lag.  But  at 
length  we  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  and  as  we 
did  so  there  came  rushing  towards  us  a  swaying, 
humming,  dark  monster,  with  two  enormous, 
round,  intolerably  bright  eyes,  and  stopped  at 
the  gate,  throbbing  and  panting,  its  huge  orbs 
now  glaring  and  goggling,  and  throwing  two 
bright  streams  of  light  far  down  the  dark  road. 
Millicent  gave  a  cry,  and  clutched  me  with 
trembling  hands. 

"There,   there!"   I  said  soothingly,  holding 
those  hands  tightly.  "  It  is  only  the  doctor' s  car. ' ' 

"Oh,   I   hate  them!"   she  said  shuddering. 
"I  shall  always  hate  them  after  this." 

We  went  up  the  steps  of  the  house  together. 
The  door  was  ajar,  the  house  very  still,  and 
that  sickly  permeating  odor  still  hanging  heavy 
in  the  quiet  air.  At  the  first  whiff  of  it  Millicent 
turned  faint,  and  I  sent  her  to  wait  in  the  garden. 
Softly  I  crept  into  the  silent  lighted  hall,  but 
it  seemed  deserted,  till  hearing  a  long-drawn 
gasp  I  raised  my  eyes,  startled,  and  saw  Beenie, 
seated  on  the  top  stair,  her  elbows  propped 
upon  her  knees,  her  swollen  face  upon  her  fists. 
She  came  down  to  me,  dabbing  her  poor  eyes 
with  a  sodden  handkerchief. 
20 


306  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"I've  cried  till  I  can't  cry  any  more,"  she 
said  dismally.  "I've  been  a-sitting  there  so't 
I  could  git  every  scrap  of  news  the  minute  the 
doctors  or  nurse  come  out.  One  of  'em  did 
come  just  now,  an*  nearly  fell  over  me.  He  was 
pretty  narsty  about  it,  too,  but  I  just  kep'  on 
taking  no  notice  of  it,  and  askin'  an'  askin'  till 
'e  told  me.  It  ain't  over  yet — but  pretty  near, 
I  should  think,  for  I  think  I  'eard  'is  car  come 
just  now — narsty  murderin'  things.  I'd  like 
to  stick  knives  an'  hatpins  without  shields 
into  all  their  wheels." 

"So  you  know  nothing  yet,  Beenie?"  I 
said,  with  a  sigh,  for  I  dreaded  to  go  back  to 
that  waiting  girl  with  no  comfort. 

"Nothing,"  said  she.  "No  one  does.  Those 
doctor  fellers  always  keeps  things  secret  as  long 
as  they  can.  The  poor  father  don't  know 
nothing.  He  just  keeps  walkin'  up  an'  down,  up 
an'  down,  for  hours  in  the  study.  And  her!" 
—  (the  scorn  in  Beenie 's  tones  warmed  my 
heart  to  her)  —  "o'  course  she  don't  know 
nothing.  So  'eart-broke  she  was,  she  'ad  to 
'ave  a  sleepin'  powder  to  soother  her  off — a 
sleepin'  powder,  mind  you,  when  for  all  she 
knew,  when  next  she  woke,  she  would  n't  have 
a  child  to  sorrow  over.  I've  no  patience!" 
concluded  Beenie,  with  a  vindictive  scowl,  in 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  307 

which  sentiment  I  heartily  concurred.  I  went 
back  to  Millicent,  who  waited,  a  blur  of  white, 
in  the  shade  of  drooping  pepper-boughs. 

"No news,"  I  said,  and  I  heard  the  long-drawn 
quivering  sigh,  half  disappointment,  half  relief. 

"Is  good  news?"  I  added  gently,  but  she 
broke  out  impatiently: 

"We  will  wait  here  till  we  hear — something. 
I  could  not  go  away  now." 

So  we  waited  in  the  soft  scented  darkness  of 
the  summer  night.  We  waited  in  silence. 
There  seemed  nothing  to  say,  but  in  the  dark- 
ness my  hand  sought  and  found  Millicent 's,  and 
it  was  not  withdrawn,  and  if  the  strong  clasp 
of  my  fingers  gave  her  one  half  the  comfort 
which  the  clinging  pressure  of  hers  gave  to  me, 
I  am  indeed  glad.  Overhead  the  great  stars 
shone  like  jewels  in  the  velvet  blackness;  a 
flowering  creeper  twining  round  the  veranda 
posts  filled  the  night  with  divine  odor,  and  the 
light  from  Phil's  window  shone  out  across  the 
gloom.  It  was  somehow  comforting.  Then 
the  door  was  opened,  a  stream  of  cheery  light 
fell  across  the  steps,  and  the  doctor  stepped 
out.  With  a  long  breath  I  loosed  the  girl's 
hands  and  stepped  forward.  The  doctor  peered. 

"Ah,  it's  you,  Lingard!  Yes,  all  over — and 
a  most  successful  operation — most  successful. 


308  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

A  very  interesting  case  altogether.  Now  these 
operations  as  a  rule  are— 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Millicent  ruthlessly. 
"But — but  the  child? "  adding  with  unconscious 
irony,  "No  doubt  the  operation  was  successful, 
but  will  Phil  live?" 

The  doctor  lifted  his  hat. 

"Pardon,  Lingard,  I  did  not  see  that  you 
had  a  lady  with  you.  Live?  We  hope  so,  we 
hope  so,  dear  madam.  He  stood  it  splendidly, 
and  we  have  great  hopes  of  him,  great  hopes. 
It's  early  days  to  promise  anything,  but  we'll 
pull  the  little  chap  through  yet,  please  God!" 

And  with  that,  this  Messenger  of  Light,  in  a 
rather  shabby  motor  coat,  and  carrying  a  black 
bag,  ran  down  the  steps,  and  sprang  into  his 
motor,  and  we  felt,  at  least,  it  should  have 
been  a  fiery  chariot  which  disappeared  in  space, 
instead  of  this  very  modern  contrivance,  which 
after  a  series  of  ear-splitting  noises,  shot  away 
with  a  long  hum  rising  to  a  crescendo,  and  left 
an  abominable  smell  of  petrol  behind.  It  was 
not  until  we  heard  the  muffled  vibrant  hum 
grow  faint  and  die  in  the  distance  that  we  spoke 
a  word,  though  we  had  stood  clasping  each 
other's  hands,  motionless.  Then  I  heard  a  soft 
little  sound  beside  me,  and  I  knew  it  was 
Millicent  weeping  in  the  darkness. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  309 

"Darling!"  I  said,  and  drew  her  into  my 
arms.  It  all  seemed  so  natural  that  I  wondered 
I  had  never  taken  Phil's  advice,  and  done  it 
before,  and  there  was  this  dear  girl,  crying 
against  my  shoulder  just  as  freely  as  Olivia 
Mary  had  done.  I  held  her  close,  and  said  a 
good  many  tender,  foolish  things,  I  dare  say, 
and  by  and  by  I  heard  her  little  broken  sobbing 
whispers. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad — so  glad!  Can  it  possibly 
be  true?" 

"Everything's  true,"  I  said  sturdily.  "And 
everything's  glorious,"  and  in  my  pocket  I 
could  feel  the  weight  of  Phil's  dear,  absurd 
talisman. 

Then  we  turned  home,  and  as  we  went, 
Millicent's  soft  hand  in  mine,  I  cried  out,  like 
a  jubilant  boy: 

"Why,  it's  lovelier  than  ever!" 

"What  is  lovelier?"  asked  Millicent  shyly. 
I  think  this  sweet  new  shyness  of  hers  was  the 
most  enchanting  thing  I  had  ever  seen. 

"Why,"  said  I  gayly,  "a  particularly  large 
and  beautiful  bubble,  painted  with  all  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow." 

When  we  came  in,  Mr.  Wimple  started  up 
from  his  chair  and  burst  out  irritably: 

"Good    Lord!     How   much   longer   do   you 


310  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

intend  to  keep  us  waiting?     It's  scandalous!" 

But  Millicent,  with  her  dewy  dark  eyes 
shining  like  stars,  and  her  cheeks  a  blaze  of 
lovely  color,  cried  out: 

"Oh,  Miss  Ellis,  they— think  Phil  will  live- 
they  think  dear  little  Phil  will  live." 

Mr.  Wimple  sat  down  heavily,  and  began 
blowing  his  nose  and  furiously  polishing  his 
glasses  exclaiming:  "God  bless  my  soul!  Live? 
I  should  think  so!" 

But  I  think  Miss  Ellis  divined  there  was  more 
in  Millicent 's  gracious  radiance  of  shining  eyes 
and  rosy  flame,  for  taking  the  girl's  two  hands 
in  hers,  she  kissed  her  very  tenderly,  saying: 

"I  am  so  very,  very  glad — for  everything!" 

And  suddenly,  without  warning,  she  burst 
into  tears.  Up  started  Mr.  Wimple. 

"Poor  soul,  poor  soul!"  he  cried,  and,  seat- 
ing himself  on  the  couch  beside  her,  passed  an 
arm  about  the  slender  upright  little  figure,  and 
fell  to  patting  her  hands  and  her  shoulders 
gently. 

"There,  there,  have  your  cry  out.  This 
little  creature  has  been  a  brick — a  trump — full 
of  courage  and  kindness,  while  I  have  been 
nothing  but — a — kettle  threatening  to  boil 
over — a  mad  bull  trying  to  break  away — look 
at  the  room!" 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  311 

He  waved  his  arm  defiantly,  and  indeed  the 
room  did  look  rather  as  though  a  whirlwind 
had  passed  through  it. 

"But  she  kept  me  up,  this  brave  little  woman 
did,"  he  continued,  again  patting  Miss  Ellis's 
hand,  "with  her  tact  and  courage,  and  calmed 
me  and  helped  me.  I  think  the  waiting  worked 
on  my  nerves — I  lost  a  boy  of  Phil's  age  my- 
self— and  no  particulars,"  he  concluded  so 
fiercely,  and  glared  at  us  so  challengingly  that, 
had  we  contemplated  drawing  him  out  on  the 
subject,  we  should  have  certainly  abandoned 
the  idea  at  once.  Miss  Ellis  was  almost  her 
collected  little  self  again,  and  gently  putting 
aside  Mr.  Wimple's  hand,  sat  as  upright  as 
ever,  looking  very  much  ashamed. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  very  foolish,"  she  said, 
putting  back  a  stray  lock  of  really  pretty  brown 
hair,  just  silvering,  which  Millicent  immediately 
pulled  down  again,  saying: 

"It's  a  shame  to  bundle  away  such  pretty 
hair,  as  you  do,"  and  Mr.  Wimple  said,  with 
ponderous  but  quite  sincere  gallantry; 

"Well,  if  the  angels  in  heaven  are  ever 
foolish,  you  have  been  so  to-night." 

Then,  with  good-nights  all  round,  he  hurried  off . 

"Isn't  he  a  dear?"  cried  Millicent,  and 
Miss  Ellis  said  staidly: 


312  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"I  find  him  a  very  entertaining  and  interest- 
ing man." 

"Yes,  but  all  the  same,"  laughed  Millicent, 
and  it  was  good  to  hear  that  sweet,  low  laugh 
again,  "he  has  knocked  your  hat  over  one  ear." 

Miss  Ellis  blushed  like  a  girl,  and  hastily 
straightened  her  hat. 

"Poor  fellow,"  she  said.  "He  has  had  a 
sad  history.  His  wife  was  a  very  delicate 
woman,  and  they  were  ten  years  without  a 
child.  Then  the  little  boy  came,  but,  as  he 
told  you,  he  died  at  about  Phil's  age,  and  the 
wife  died  soon  after,  broken-hearted.  He  says 
that  ever  since  he  could  never  bear  to  look  at 
a  boy,  but  Phil  simply  conquered  him,  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  told  me  all  this  in  a  very  jerky 
way,  at  intervals  during  the  evening,  as  he  was 
tramping  about  the  room,  and  I  did  not  dare 
to  question  him,  or  even  to  sympathize,  for  I 
could  see  how  painful  he  found  it  to  speak  of  it." 

Then,  as  Miss  Ellis  was  to  spend  the  night 
with  Millicent,  I  took  them  both  home,  but 
though  the  former  very  discreetly  walked  into 
the  hall  ahead  of  us,  and  I  caught  at  Millicent's 
hand,  she  whispered  very  shyly: 

"Not  to-night — my  heart  is  too  full." 

So  I  had  to  do  without  my  good-night  kiss, 
on  which  I  had  been  speculating  all  the  way 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  313 

home,  but  I  was  too  happy  to  fret  much  about 
it,  and,  after  all,  it  was — oh,  blessed  thought! — 
only  deferred.  A  gleam  of  light  from  under  the 
kitchen  door  as  I  got  in  reminded  me  of  poor 
faithful  Binks,  and  my  heart  smote  me,  for  she 
did  not  yet  know  the  hopeful  news.  I  found  her 
asleep  on  a  chair  before  the  cold  range.  Her 
face  was  disfigured  with  tears ;  and  in  her  lap 
she  held  a  small  shell-covered  box,  which  Phil 
had  given  her  at  Christmas.  She  had  always 
admired  this  box,  and  Phil  admired  it,  if  possible, 
more,  and  in  moments  when  it  seemed  Mrs. 
Binks  did  not  quite  appreciate  him,  was  wont 
to  remind  her:  "I  gave  you  that  lovely  box, 
you  know." 

I  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  and  she  started 
wide  awake,  and  as  her  eyes  met  mine  she  cried: 

"Don't  tell  me  he's  gone,  but  there — did  n't 
I  always  say  it?"  and  threw  her  apron  over 
her  head,  and  began  to  cry. 

"Gone!  No  fear!"  I  cried.  "Nor  going, 
Mrs.  Binks.  The  operation  is  over,  and  was 
very  successful." 

But  Mrs.  Binks,  like  your  born  pessimist  all 
the  world  over,  was  ever  reluctant  to  give  up 
a  gloomy  view  of  events,  and  though  I  saw 
the  relief  struggle  with  the  doubt  in  her  face, 
she  said  instantly: 


314  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"Sugsessful?  Oh,  no  doubt!  These  h' oper- 
ations always  are  sugsessful,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  so  to  speak,  and  next  thing  the  patient 
up  and  dies  on  you.  Why,  there's  me  own 
first  cousin's  husband's  sister  as  underwent 


"Oh,  never  mind  your  husband's  cousin's 
and  so  forth  — "  I  cried.  "But  aren't  you 
glad — glad — glad  that  Phil  is  to  be  spared  to 
plague  you  again?" 

"Glad?"  she  said,  and  two  tears  stole  slowly 
down  her  mottled  cheeks.  "Why  if  'e  come 
this  blessed  minute  an'  filled  me  clean  kitchen 
with  dirt  from  end  to  end,  I'd  welcome  'im 
with  open  arms.  Why,  that  little  feller — I've 
never  'ad  no  child  of  me  own" — her  voice  was 
a  husky  whisper  now — "but  somehow  Phil 
has  seemed  to  make — up — for 

Her  voice  faltered  into  silence,  and  the 
kitchen  clock  ticked  loudly  in  the  stillness. 
Suddenly,  snatching  up  the  lighted  candle,  she 
said  accusingly: 

"Lor,  look  at  the  time!  Keeping  me  out  of 
me  bed  till  this  hour  of  night — a  parcel  of  men 
and  boys " 

And  with  that  she  swept  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  me  to  grope  my  way  out  in  the  darkness 
as  best  I  could. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN   WHICH   THE   MYSTERIOUS   D.    A.    REVEALS 
HIMSELF 

T  7ERY  early  next  morning  I  was  out  to  get 
news  of  Phil,  and  the  report  sent  me 
home  jubilant: 

"Everything  going  on  well." 

I  plunged  into  my  cold  tub,  and  out  again, 
with  delight  in  its  freshness.  I  whistled  loudly 
as  I  toweled  myself,  and  only  desisted  while 
shaving,  because  I  preferred  not  to  go  abroad 
adorned  with  sticking  plaster  on  this  most 
glorious  day  of  my  life.  Coming  to  the  break- 
fast table,  where  Mrs.  Binks,  trying  to  look 
solemn,  but  with  a  light  in  her  eye  which  belied 
her,  was  putting  the  last  touches,  I  astonished 
her  by  executing  a  few  steps  of  a  pas  de  seul, 
whereat  one  of  Phil's  slippers  flew  off,  hit  the 
ceiling,  rebounded  on  to  a  gas  bracket,  and 
eventually  landed  in  the  butter. 

"Well,"  cried  Mrs.  Binks,  "and  who's  to 
eat  that  butter,  I'd  like  to  know?  And  there 
goes  another  of  my  mantles — as  if  there  was  n't 
enough  to  pay  for  mantles  in  this  house,  a'ready, 
with  the  rampaging  that  goes  on,  and  a  parcel 
of  men  an'  boys " 

315 


316  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

"What's  the  odds,  Mrs.  Binks,"  I  cried, 
"so  long  as  Phil's  getting  better?"  And  walk- 
ing to  the  mantelpiece  I  set  up  Phil's  talisman 
conspicuously  in  the  very  middle  of  it. 

"As  to  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Binks,  who  was 
scraping  the  butter  off  my  slipper  with  a  table- 
knife,  "if  the  little  dear's  to  get  better,  and  I'd 
like  to  be  as  sure  o'  that  as  some,  it 's  not  me  as 
would  grudge  the  price  of  a  thousand  mantles, 
so  to  speak." 

Which,  considering  I  paid  for  the  mantles, 
was  very  generous  of  her,  but  I  understood  that 
her  sentiments  did  her  credit  none  the  less. 
Just  then  her  eye  fell  on  the  horseshoe,  and  she 
ceased  scraping  the  slipper. 

"Well,  I  declare!  What  next!  Cluttering 
up  my  tidy  chimney  piece  with  more  rubbish, 
as  though  pipes  an'  tobacco  tins,  an'  such  smelly 
rubbish  is  n't  bad  enough,  here 's  a  dirty  old 
horseshoe.  One  must  draw  the  line  some- 
where, in  a  manner  of  speakin'." 

She  reached  for  the  offending  article  to 
remove  it,  and  I  said  off-handedly: 

"That  was  given  me  by  Phil,  for  luck." 

I  knew  her  affection  for  Phil,  combined  with 
a  lively  vein  of  superstition,  would  render  that 
horseshoe  sacred  to  her. 

"Phil! — luck!"  she  muttered,  and  without  a 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  317 

word  she  left  the  room,  and  the  horseshoe 
remained  where  it  was.  After  breakfast  I 
wrote  my  first  love  letter  to  Millicent,'  at  least 
the  first  that  had  ever  found  its  way  into  the 
post  bag,  and  at  the  office  I  rang  her  up  and  gave 
her  the  news  of  Phil,  which,  it  appeared,  she  had 
already  got  for  herself.  After  expressing  our 
mutual  pleasure  at  this  happy  state  of  affairs, 
we  fell  to  talking  of  ourselves.  I  asked  her  if 
she  would  lunch  with  me,  but  she  declined, 
also  my  suggestion  that  I  should  come  up  and 
lunch  with  her,  but  she  would  see  me  in  the 
afternoon.  Later  on,  she  said: 

"Don't  be  silly!"  and  again  later,  "Please 
remember  telephone  girls  have  ears,"  but  by 
and  by  I  forgot  that  fact  again,  and  she  said 
"Good-by,"  and  left  the  telephone.  Oh,  but  I 
was  happy!  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  her  morning 
mood  was  that  which  I  knew  best,  very  sweet, 
but  self-possessed  and  overlaid  with  a  pretty 
veneer  of  mockery,  which  I  knew  only  veiled 
the  tender  loveliness  of  her  nature,  and  I  thought 
of  the  poet's  "rose  set  all  about  with  little 
willful  thorns."  Sorrow  and  submission  and 
humility  were  not  meet  cloaks  for  Millicent's 
gay  courage  and  imperiousness. 

During  the  morning  Mr.  Wimple  called,  and 
after  hearing  the  report  of  Phil,  and  expressing 


318  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

his  delight,  he  sat  for  some  time  in  silence,  his 
ebony  stick  upright  between  his  knees,  and  his 
hands  folded  on  its  silver  knob,  his  chin  resting 
on  them  and  his  eyes  on  my  waste-paper  basket. 

"Uncommonly  fine  little  lady  she  is,"  he 
said  suddenly,  apropos  of  nothing. 

"She  is,  indeed,"  I  cried  fervently.  " If  there 
had  n't  already  been  so  many  happiest  men  in 
the  world,  I  should  really  think  I  was  that  one." 

"The  sensible,  kind,  tactful  way  in  which  she 
calmed  me  down  was  wonderful — wonderful— 
By  which  I  perceived  he  was  speaking  of  Miss 
Ellis,  and  had  not  even  heard  my  interjection, 
which,  with  the  egotism  of  a  lover,  of  course 
referred  to  Millicent.  Soon  after  he  took  his 
departure,  and  I  made  a  determined  effort,  and 
settled  to  a  couple  of  hours'  work. 

The  first  few  rapturous  moments  alone  with 
Millicent  belong  only  to  ourselves,  and  no  one 
else  has  any  concern  with  them.  But  later,  we 
found  ourselves  side  by  side  on  the  couch  in 
Millicent's  sitting  room,  and  her  hands  were 
in  mine. 

"To  think,"  I  murmured,  "sweetheart,  that 
we  should  have  wasted  so  much  time  in  mis- 
understandings and  stupid  disagreements!" 

"But  I'm  afraid  we  shall  always  squabble," 
she  said  naughtily. 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  319 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall,"  I  agreed  equably. 
"You  are  such  an  aggravating  darling,  you 
know." 

"And  you  are  perfectly  exasperating,"  she 
retorted.  "You  know  you  are!" 

"Why,  you're  getting  in  a  rage  now,"  I  said 
teasingly,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  red 
rush  up  into  her  cheeks,  mentally  deciding  she 
really  looked  the  prettiest  of  all  with  that  color, 
and  the  sparkle  in  her  brown  eyes. 

"I'm  no  such  thing,"  she  declared,  "and  if 
I  am,  it's  you  who  make  me  do  it." 

And  then,  because  we  were  really  too  happy 
to  even  play  at  quarreling,  we  both  burst  out 
laughing,  and  I  instantly  declared  that  Millicent 
of  the  laughter  sprites  and  dimples  was  the 
loveliest  Millicent  of  all,  and  then  changed  my 
mind,  because  all  of  a  sudden  she  became 
sweetly  serious,  with  a  wistful  droop  to  her 
mouth,  and  her  eyes  large  and  pathetic. 

"How  I  did  hate  that  horrid  Miss  Lee!" 
she  sighed. 

"And  how  I  wanted  to  knock  the  head  off 
that  brute,  D.  A."  I  said  malevolently. 

Millicent  started.  A  mischievous  dimple 
appeared. 

"Ah!  yes,  D.  A."  she  said.  "You  mustn't 
call  D.  A.  a  brute." 


320  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"You — like  him  still,  then?  "  I  asked  gloomily. 

"And  always  shall,"  she  returned  positively. 
"Remember,  I  have  known  him  very  much 
longer  than  I  have  known  you." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it,"  I  returned 
shortly. 

"Oh,  you  must  try  to  like  him  for  my  sake," 
she  said.  "You  must  meet  him.  You'll  like 
him,  I'm  sure,  when  you  know  him  as  I  do." 

"Not  I!"  I  said,  and  frowned  gloomily  at 
the  carpet. 

"Let  me  introduce  you.     I'll  do  it  now." 

"  Now! "  I  cried,  with  a  start.     "  Is  he  here? " 

"He  lives  here." 

' '  Another  boarder? ' ' 

1 '  Yes — another  boarder. ' ' 

Heavens,  I  thought,  little  did  I  know  the 
enormous,  daily,  hourly  advantage  over  me 
this  fellow  had  had  in  his  wooing.  But  from 
that  thought  rose  the  pardonable  vanity  in  the 
reflection,  that,  given  all  the  advantages  of 
propinquity  on  his  side,  yet  I  had  proved  the 
victor,  and  this  soothing  thought  bred  a  toler- 
ance in  me,  merely  contemptuous,  not  actively 
antagonistic,  even  pitying. 

"Come,"  said  Millicent,  her  hands  still  in 
mine. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "just  to  please  you,  but  I 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  321 

know  I  shan't  like  the  fellow,  and  anyhow  he  '11 
keep.  Let  him  wait.  He's  not  going  to  spoil 
my  first  perfect  hour  alone  with  you.  He's 
spoiled  many  another." 

"Poor  old  boy!"  she  said  softly,  and  for  a 
moment  a  pair  of  lips  like  the  brush  of  a  butter- 
fly's wing  touched  my  cheek. 

"Little  girl!     My  little  girl!"  I  whispered. 

She  submitted  to  a  kiss  or  two,  but  with  her 
pretty  imperiousness  she  would  have  her  way, 
and,  grumbling  under  my  breath,  I  followed  her 
out  on  to  a  balcony.  She  peeped  over  the  rail- 
ing, and  beckoned  me. 

"There!"  she  said,  and  nodded. 

I  looked  over.  Below  was  a  small  square  of 
grass,  inclosed  by  high  brick  walls  over  which 
ran  a  riot  of  climbing  roses,  and  in  the  center 
of  the  plot  grew  a  fine  pepper  tree.  But  there 
was  no  one  there,  except  old  Mr.  Lynn,  in 
smoking  jacket  and  slippers,  dozing  in  a  deck 
chair,  the  paper  on  his  knees  and  a  dog  asleep 
at  his  feet.  I  drew  back  and  gazed  at  Millicent, 
bewildered. 

"Well!"  she  said  demurely. 

"Well,"  said  I.  "There's  no  one  there  but 
your  father." 

"That's  him,"  she  said,  regardless  of  gram- 
mar, her  eyes  dancing. 
21 


- 


322  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

"What!"  I  cried.     "D.A.- 

"d"  she  finished  softly. 

"D — a — d?"  I  repeated  stupidly,  and  then 
a  blaze  of  light  broke  in  upon  me.  "Oh,  you 
rogue ! "  I  cried.  "You  teasing,  tiresome,  aggra- 
vating— as  dear  old  Phil  would  say — piece  of 
naughtiness,  you!" 

I  drew  her  within  the  shadow  of  the  striped 
sunblinds,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again,  and 
when  I  let  her  escape,  she  explained  the  D.  A. 

"When  I  was  quite  a  wee  thing,"  she  said, 
"my  father  wanted  to  teach  me  to  spell '  Daddy.' 
I  got  as  far  as  D — A  all  right,  and  there  I 
always  stuck.  I  would  say  glibly  enough 
D — a — ,  'd'  he  would  hint,  and  I  would  in- 
stantly retort  "a"  and  so  D.  A.  it  remained,  as 
a  sort  of  nickname  between  us." 

She  laughed  joyously  at  the  changed  ex- 
pression on  my  face,  and  then,  waving  her  little 
hand  imperiously,  she  said: 

"And  now  you'd  better  go  down  and  state 
your  business  with  him.  I  told  him  you  wished 
to  speak  to  him,  and  the  dear  old  innocent  said 
he  supposed  it  was  about  the  mortgage  on  his 
freehold.  So  run  down,  and  when  you  come 
back  I  may  have  a  cup  of  tea  for  you." 

"Not  I!"  I  said.  "I  fear  you  have  no 
business  instinct  or  you  would  hardly  suggest 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  323 

waking  an  elderly  man,  on  a  hot  afternoon,  to 
ask  him  for  his  most  precious  possession.  Why, 
it  would  be  just  courting  opposition." 

"Well,"  she  laughed,  "as  that  'most  precious 
possession'  part  of  your  speech  is  rather  hand- 
some, you  shall  have  your  tea  first  and  then 
speak  about  the  mortgage." 

"The  most  precious  mortgage  it  will  ever 
be  my  lot  to  hold,"  I  whispered,  my  lips  against 
her  ear.  "And  I  warn  you  I  intend  to  foreclose 
without  delay." 

"It's  a  pity,  though,"  she  remarked  mis- 
chievously, slipping  away,  "that  you  will  never 
like  the  fellow." 

"You—  '  I  began.  But  she  evaded  my 
hand,  and  left  me  with  a  gay  little  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  WHICH  WE  "ALL  LIVE  HAPPY  EVER  AFTER" 

T  WAS  the  first  visitor  permitted  to  Phil, 
and  then,  as  the  nurse  warned  me,  only  for 
a  few  minutes.  I  found  a  very  wan,  large- 
eyed  little  Phil,  still  swathed  in  bandages,  and 
his  voice  hardly  louder  than  a  whisper,  but 
the  dear,  merry  smile  peeped  out  when  he  saw 
me.  I  sat  down  and  took  the  childish  fingers 
in  mine,  but  found  not  a  word  to  say,  for  I 
could  not  trust  my  voice  for  the  moment. 

"Ruddy,"  whispered  Phil,  "aren't  you  glad 
the  big  motor  car  did  n't  make  me  quite  dead?  " 

"Glad — little  chap?"  was  all  I  could  say. 

"I've  got  a  bone  in  my  arm  now,  like  Binks 
has  in  her  leg,"  said  Phil.  "But  daddy  says 
if  I  lie  quite  still  it'll  go  away,  and  he's  going 
to  give  me  a  magi-glantern." 

"That's  famous,"  said  I.  "And  poor  old 
Binks  says  she  is  going  to  make  you  the  biggest 
cake  you '  ve  ever  seen,  when  you  're  well  enough 
to  come  and  eat  it." 

"How  big?"  asked  Phil.  "As  big  as— as 
thepiller?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.     But  say,  little  chap, 

324 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  325 

are  n't  you  talking  too  much?  Am  I  to  go, 
nurse?" 

"  Don't  go,  Ruddy."  The  weak  little  fingers 
clutched  mine. 

"Well,  just  a  little  longer,"  said  nurse. 

"That's  nurse,"  said  Phil.  "She's  nice. 
She  says  I've  got  to  marry  her — but  I  can't, 
Ruddy.  I  promised  Beenie  years  ago." 

"There  you  are,  then,"  said  I,  and  nurse 
laughed. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  my  temperacher? " 
asked  Phil.  "She  does  every  day,  Ruddy. 
How  much  is  it  to-day,  nursie?" 

"He  takes  a  tremendous  interest  in  his 
temperature,"  said  nurse,  smiling.  "Chiefly, 
I  think,  because  it  has  to  do  with  figures." 

"Oh!  so  you've  found  him  out,  then,"  I 
said,  and  Phil  repeated: 

"How  much,  nursie?    About  five  hundred?" 

"About  that,"  nurse  agreed.  "Quite  a  nice 
lot  anyhow." 

"Five  hundred 's  a  good  lot,  is  n't  it,  Ruddy? " 
said  Phil  contentedly,  his  voice  a  little  languid 
now,  as  I  rose  to  go. 

A  week  later  I  brought  Millicent  to  see  Phil. 
Before  going  upstairs  she  asked  to  see  Phil's 
mother.  She  was  a  little  pale  and  resolute 
looking,  but  I  did  not  suspect  that  she  was 


326  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

about  to  tell  the  mother  that  she  had  been  in 
charge  of  the  boy  at  the  time  of  his  accident, 
so  that  no  longer  any  blame  might  rest  on  me. 
Phil's  mother,  who  was  all  dressed  for  going 
out,  rustled  and  jingled  into  the  room,  buttoning 
her  gloves. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Lynn — Mr.  Lingard? 
So  sweet  of  you  to  come,"  she  babbled,  "and 
I  'm  so  sorry  to  be  going  out,  but  I  'm  sure  Phil 
will  love  to  see  you." 

But  when  my  sweet,  brave  girl,  very  pale 
and  earnest,  made  her  little  confession,  the 
Butterfly  burst  out  gayly: 

"Oh,  my  dear!  don't  say  another  word  about 
it.  I  'm  sure  it  was  sweet  of  you  to  be  troubled 
with  the  boy  at  all.  I  was  very  upset  naturally 
— a  mother's  feelings,  you  know.  And  I'm 
afraid  I  said  a  number  of  horrid  things  to  poor 
Mr.  Lingard — my  husband  assures  me  I  did. 
But  I  should  have  made  allowances  had  I 
known  the  state  of  affairs  between  you  and 
Mr.  Lingard,  who  thoroughly  disapproves  of  me, 
you  know."  And  here  she  flirted  a  pair  of  big 
shallow  eyes  at  me,  from  under  her  huge  hat, 
and  gave  a  gay  tinkling  laugh.  "Congratula- 
tions to  you  both!  And  now  I  really  must  run 
away.  I'm  going  with  friends  to  the  matinee, 
Oscar  Asche,  you  know,  and  Lily  Brayton. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  327 

So  sweet,  is  n't  she?  So  you  really  must  excuse 
me.  Give  Phil  my  love,  will  you?  I  have  n't 
time  to  see  him,  poor  darling,  but  will  run  up 
for  a  few  minutes  directly  I  come  in.  Good-by." 

So  she  jingled  and  rustled  away  with  her  per- 
fumes and  flowers,  and  I  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  drew  my  girl  to  the  open  window,  where 
we  stood  a  moment  in  silence,  before  going 
upstairs.  I  left  Millicent  hidden  by  the  door, 
while  I  went  in  to  Phil.  He  was  looking  more 
like  his  old  self,  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  a 
tinge  of  color  was  in  his  cheeks. 

"Here's  a  friend  to  see  you,  Phil,"  I  cried. 
"Guess!" 

"Three  guesses?"  he  asked,  and  began  wrink- 
ling his  forehead,  but  Millicent  was  too  impa- 
tient and  ran  forward,  her  pretty  eyes  full  of 
tears.  "It's  dear  old  Miller,"  cried  Phil,  in 
a  glad  little  voice  of  welcome. 

"Phil!"  was  all  the  girl  could  say,  and 
dropping  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  laid  her 
tear-wet  cheek  down  on  the  little  hand. 

I  stole  out  and  left  them  together. 

Weeks  later  I  gave  another  party,  at  which 
Phil  was  the  guest  of  honor,  a  taller,  thinner 
Phil,  with  a  funny  little  boyish  cropped  head, 
and  eyes  grown  two  sizes  too  large  for  him,  but 


328  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

with  the  old  beaming  smile  and  merry  laugh. 
Millicent  was  there,  and  Miss  Ellis  and  Mr. 
Wimple,  and  Phil's  father  came  for  an  hour 
with  a  strange  new  content  in  his  eyes,  when 
they  rested  on  his  little  son;  Olivia  Mary  was 
there,  as  autocratic  as  ever,  wanting  to  manage 
everybody's  affairs,  and  Miss  Elizabeth  Asch- 
man  was  there,  too,  because,  hearing  there  was 
to  be  a  party,  she  had  very  sociably  happened 
along  about  that  time,  and  settled  down  quite 
happily,  and  it  seemed  to  be  nobody's  business 
to  tell  her  to  go.  Reggie  Blair  had  been  invited, 
and  he  arrived,  very  immaculate  in  a  white  duck 
cricketing  suit  and  tan  belt  and  stockings, 
but  there  was  no  getting  him  to  come  in.  If 
any  one  attempted  it,  he  simply  ran  from  them. 
He  hung  about  the  farthest  limits  of  the  garden, 
and  threw  clods  at  my  fowls,  and  shouted  in  a 
very  loud  and  blustering  voice  at  Phil  and  the 
little  girls.  Olivia  Mary  said  he  was  "showing 
off,"  but  only  Millicent  and  I  seemed  to  under- 
stand that  all  this  brusquerie  was  simply  a  kind 
of  fierce  shyness,  which  strove  to  hide  itself 
under  an  assumption  of  blustering  ease.  When 
tea  appeared,  Olivia  Mary  and  Phil  trotted  off  to 
bring  Master  Blair  in,  but  returned  unsuccessful, 
though  Olivia  Mary  said  she  had  told  him  about 
the  chocolates  and  the  jelly  in  little  red  glasses. 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  329 

"I'll  fetch  him,"  said  Millicent,  and  slipped 
out  into  the  garden.  Master  Blair  moved  off 
briskly  in  the  direction  of  the  gate,  but  at 
something  Millicent  called  out  he  stopped  to 
parley,  and  they  drew  step  by  step  nearer, 
where  he  stood  hanging  his  head,  and  shaking  it, 
and  kicking  at  the  gravel.  Then  Millicent 
came  in  alone. 

"Wild  man  still  untamed?"  I  asked. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  she  answered;  "it  will 
be  all  right,"  and  she  set  a  chair  close  to  the 
door.  A  few  minutes  later  Reggie  Blair  came 
in.  He  came  in  with  rather  an  air  of  swaggering 
bravado,  very  red  in  the  face,  but  Millicent 
having  forcibly  checked  Olivia  Mary's  outcry, 
he  sat  down  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  chair, 
and  chewed  the  elastic  of  his  straw  hat. 
Presently  Millicent  carried  some  cakes  to  him, 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  his 
was  the  loudest  and  most  insistent  of  the  chil- 
dren's voices.  It  was  he,  indeed,  who  instituted 
the  fascinating  game  of  trying  who  could  take 
the  longest  draft  of  lemonade  without  drawing 
breath,  the  result  of  which  was  that  the  correct 
Miss  Aschman  choked  violently,  and  had  to 
be  taken  out  by  Miss  Ellis,  and  ignominiously 
thumped  on  the  back.  Even  Olivia  Mary  had 
to  subside  in  the  face  of  Reggie's  vociferousness, 


330  MY  FRIEND   PHIL 

a  fact  which,  rather  than  incensing  that  young 
lady,  only  earned  her  respect.  Now  that  Phil 
was  no  longer  an  invalid,  and  interesting  as 
such,  Olivia  Mary  was  beginning  to  tire  of  him. 
In  the  first  moments  of  their  reunion,  while 
Phil  was  still  in  bed,  she  had  bestowed  upon 
him  her  Coronation  medal,  but  as  he  became 
more  and  more  like  himself,  she  repented  of 
her  generosity,  and  demanded  it  back.  Phil 
very  reluctantly  yielded  it,  explaining  to  me, 
"She  really  and  truly  gave  it  to  me,  Ruddy, 
and  now  she  says  it  was  only  for  a  lend."  It 
was  good  to  see  my  merry  Phil  in  his  old  place 
again,  playing  host  in  my  house.  The  table 
was  a  sight  to  behold,  Mrs.  Binks  having  ex- 
celled herself  in  the  providing  of  pink  sugared 
cakes  and  colored  jellies,  and  the  chef-d'ceuvre 
was  a  beautiful  iced  cake  tastefully  inscribed 
with  Phil's  name,  and  "Welkim,"  in  colored 
"hundreds  and  thousands,"  and  surrounded  by 
a  perfect  chevaux  de  frise  of  blanched  almonds. 
Millicent  had  made  a  thing  of  beauty  of  Phil's 
emblem  of  luck,  gilding  it,  and  threading  it 
with  narrow  gayly  hued  ribbons,  and  it  hung 
upon  the  wall  behind  his  chair.  Phil  was  to  cut 
his  own  cake,  and  Mrs.  Binks  was  called  in  to 
witness  the  ceremony.  Phil  took  the  knife  in  his 
hand,  and  we  all  had  to  wait  in  tense  silence 


MY  FRIEND  PHIL  331 

while  he  counted  the  bristling  almonds.  Then 
the  point  of  the  knife  slipped  on  the  smooth 
icing,  and  Mrs.  Binks  suggested,  in  her  best 
manner,  that  she  should  assist,  as,  said  she, 
"My  hieing  is  always  stiffened  that  firm,  it 
requires  a  'and  with  some  h'experience,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking,  so  to  speak!" 

And  soon,  great  rich  brown  wedges,  frosted 
with  white,  and  stuffed  fat  with  sultanas  and 
currants,  and  candied  peel,  lay  on  all  the  plates, 
and  Miss  Aschman  recalled,  for  the  edification 
of  the  company,  a  cake  she  once  had,  so  big  it 
took  a  tea  tray  to  hold  it.  After  tea  we  had 
music,  this  time  on  my  own,  I  may  say  "our" 
own  piano,  in  view  of  the  time,  not  far  distant, 
when  Millicent  and  I  hope  to  enter  into  joint 
possession  of  all  goods  and  chattels.  And  then 
Mr.  Wimple,  looking  only  a  little  embarrassed, 
told  us  a  piece  of  news  about  himself  and  Miss 
Ellis — Clarissa,  as  he  called  her — and  their 
joint  future,  that  made  me  grasp  and  wring  his 
hand  heartily,  and  Millicent  throw  her  arms 
about  Miss  Ellis,  who  stood  blushing  and  pretty 
as  a  girl.  And  then  we  drank  their  healths  in 
lemonade,  and  he  retorted  by  proposing  ours, 
which,  all  the  lemonade  being  gone,  was  honored 
in  tea,  and  Millicent,  being  very  excited,  drank 
her  own  health  loyally,  and  when,  with  some 


332  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

laughter,  this  was  pointed  out  to  her,  she  only 
said  with  gay  defiance: 

"Well,  I  don't  care!  Why  shouldn't  one 
drink  to  one's  own  happiness?  I  want  to 
be  happy." 

"And  so  do  we  all,  dear,"  said  Miss  Ellis 
gently,  "and  it  seems — oh!  it  does  seem  that 
it  is  coming  true,  at  last." 

And  in  those  fervent,  half -faltering  words  of 
hers  we  all  read  what  her  lips  would  never  have 
uttered,  a  tale  of  poverty  and  struggle  and  ill- 
luck  and  hope  deferred,  and  Millicent,  to  hide 
the  tears  in  her  eyes  cried,  "Oh!  don't  let  us 
forget  to  drink  Phil's  health,"  and  I  swung  him 
on  to  my  shoulder. 

Then  Mr.  Wimple  cried  suddenly: 

"God  bless  my  soul!  I'll  be  forgetting  my 
head  next,"  and  darted  out  into  the  hall.  He 
returned  with  a  black  bag,  from  which  he 
produced  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champagne, 
apologizing  to  me  for  what  he  called  "the 
liberty,"  and  which,  he  said,  he  looked  upon  as 
his  contribution  to  the  feast,  though  he  had 
already,  like  a  veritable  Santa  Claus,  rained 
chocolates  and  sweets  on  the  company. 

Well,  with  a  merry  popping  of  corks,  the 
healths  were  drunk  all  over  again,  and  Phil's  in 
particular,  and  the  children  were  allowed  a 


MY  FRIEND   PHIL  333 

thimble-full  each,  and,  with  one  accord,  they 
declared  they  liked  the  lemonade  much  better 
than  that  kind  of  ginger  beer.  I  still  held  Phil 
on  my  shoulder. 

"Speech!  Speech!"  I  cried,  and  Millicent 
clapped  her  hands  and  cried: 

"Yes!  Phil  must  make  a  speech." 

But  when  it  was  explained  to  him,  Phil  be- 
came very  red  and  embarrassed. 

"I  can't,  Ruddy,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
how  to — I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

I  whispered  a  few  words  to  him,  and  bravely 
he  began. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I'm  very  'elighted," 
then  in  a  loud  whisper  to  me,  "What's  next? 
What'd  you  say,  Ruddy? — very  'elighted. 
Speak  louder,  I  can't  hear  you — oh,  yes! — 
'elighted  to  see  all  my  friends,  and  I  'm  sure  they 
ought  to  be  very  grateful.  What  are  you 
laughing  at,  Miller? — I  won't  say  any  more." 

"Yes,  yes,  go  on,"  cried  Millicent,  "they 
ought — you're  quite  right." 

"An',"  went  on  Phil  very  rapidly,  "I  hope 
they've  enjoyed  theirselves.  I  can't  remember 
any  more.  Please  put  me  down,  Ruddy." 

I  lowered  him  amid  vociferous  hand-clapping, 
and  Millicent  snatched  him  up  in  her  arms. 

"Darling    little     Phil,"     she    cried,     "who 


334  MY   FRIEND   PHIL 

brought  us  all  together,  and  brought  us  all 
our  happiness,  too!" 

And  in  the  momentary  silence  which  followed 
we  heard  Olivia  Mary's  chilly  little  voice. 

"Just  'cause  Phil  went  an'  g-got  ill,  he's  the 
p-pet  of  this  p-p-party." 

Later,  when  they  had  all  gone,  with  the 
exception  of  Millicent,  whom  I  had  prevailed 
upon  to  wait  a  few  moments,  so  that  we  might 
take  Phil  home  together,  I  left  the  two  together 
while  I  went  to  change  my  coat. 

When  I  came  back  Millicent  was  sitting  on 
the  couch  on  the  veranda,  with  Phil  curled  up 
on  her  lap.  I  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  my 
arms  right  round  the  two,  girl  and  boy,  and 
drew  the  two  dear  heads  against  my  shoulder. 

"What  a  bundle  of  people,"  laughed  Phil. 

"A  bundle  of  love!"  I  whispered  against 
Millicent 's  ear,  and  smiling  at  Phil,  "the  two 
little  people  I  love  best  in  the  world." 

"There!  You've  told  her  your  own  self," 
cried  Phil.  "'Sides  Miller's  not  little.  She's 
a  big  lady,  but  you've  told  her  now,  Ruddy." 

"Perhaps  she  knew  it  all  along,  Phil,"  said 
Millicent,  putting  her  cheek  against  his. 

"An'  does  Ruddy  know  the  one  you  love 
best?"  asked  Phil. 


MY   FRIEND   PHIL  335 

"I  think  he's  guessed,"  she  said,  and  I  kissed 
her  hair  softly. 

"Tell  us  a  story,"  suggested  Phil,  the  oppor- 
tunist, and  for  once,  nothing  loath,  I  began. 

"There  were  once  three  people  in  the 
world - 

"Only  three?"  interrupted  Phil  incredu- 
lously. 

"Only  three  that  mattered.  It  was  a  world 
of  their  own." 

"Oh!     G'won!" 

"There  were  a  Man  and  a  Maid  and  a  Jolly 
Kid,  and  the  Man  loved  the  Maid,  and  the  Maid 
loved  the  Man,  only  she  could  n't  be  quite 
sure 

"Did  n't  nobody  love  the  Jolly  Kid?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Millicent  quickly,  "they 
both  loved  him,  and  were  very  sure  about  that." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Phil,  sitting  up, 
"it  isn't  your  story." 

Millicent  blushed,  and  I  laughed,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"Only  the  Man  never  told  her  he  loved  her." 

"Why  didn't  he?" 

"Oh,  because  he  had  n't  the  sense  to  come  in 
out  of  the  rain,  I  suppose." 

"Not  even  if  he  was  getting  soaking  wet? 
He  must've  been  a  silly." 


336  MY  FRIEND  PHIL 

"He  was,  and  so 

"Why  didn't  the  Maid  tell  him  she  loved 
him  best  in  the  world?" 

"Because  she  thought  it  was  his  business  to 
find  out,  I  suppose,  and  she  was  a  very  sweet, 
wise  Maid,  so  she  must  have  been  right  even 
though  it  did  seem  a  little  cruel  to  him — 

"What  nonsense  are  you  telling  the  child?" 
murmured  Millicent,  the  soft  color  burning 
in  her  cheeks. 

"Shall  I  stop?"  I  asked,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  said: 

"N-no!"  and  looking  at  me  from  under  her 
dark  lashes,  "G'won." 

So,  bending  down,  I  told  the  rest  of  the  story 
for  her  ear  alone.  Phil,  whose  eyes  were  heavy 
with  sleep,  half-dozed  against  the  soft  rise  and 
fall  of  her  breast,  hearing  no  more  of  the  story 
save  the  low  murmur  of  my  voice.  I  told  her 
my  story  of  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  past,  and 
aspirations  for  the  future,  my  glowing  plans 
for  making  our  life  together  a  thing  of  gladness 
and  mutual  happiness  and  understanding.  I 
ceased,  and  gently  turned  her  dear  averted  face 
to  mine,  and  as  her  warm,  sweet  lips  met  mine, 
the  child  in  her  arms  stirred,  opened  his  eyes 
— and  smiled  dreamily. 

"An'  they  all  lived  happy  ever  after." 


